She Flies With Her Own Wings
by The Golden Hierophant
Summary: Learning to stand on her own two feet as warrior and leader, the wayward Ovelia is called back to her broken homeland, Ivalice, to halt yet another impending civil war. A Sequel to Eleison. AU.
1. The Shaded Corridor of Memories

Alis Volat Propiis

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_ She Flies With Her Own Wings_

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A/N: A continuation of my one-shot- Eleison. She gripped the dagger, and she changed history in one blow. Now in absolute secrecy, Ovelia is living in the wilds of Ordalia, Ivalice's neighboring kingdom with fellow fugitives Alma and Ramza until the former Queen learns unexpected news. A new page in the history of Ivalice unfolds as Ovelia learns to stand on her own two feet.

Disclaimer: I am making no profit from this story whatsoever.

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Chapter 1: The Shaded Corridor of Memories

With her back against a fir and an ear open, Ovelia listened for the familiar metallic footfalls of mythril boots against loose earth. Ramza, he'd return soon, bearing supplies- victuals, medical wares, and weapons of war, and they'd pick up and continue on, always traveling never stopping. Alma, his sister, would make lighthearted conversation which would inevitably fall flat, and the three of them would continue on in a martyr's silence.

_Dead men rejoice not and are only shadows roving until they fade._

She had been Ovelia, ruler of Ivalice, but that Ovelia had died nearly a month ago in a destroyed church quietly. Queen Ovelia now only lived as a faint memory of a troubled time in the pages of Ivalice's history and as an empty grave in the halls of her noble country's kings. She, the woman against the tree in leather armor with roughened hands, was the remnant, bitterly free of name and country.

A twig snapped in the distance, and her hand went for her dagger. These woods were dark and deep; her breath stilled. A brigand? A troll? Or an animal of some sort? Her eyes narrowed, and she turned ever so slightly, eyes peering past the tree into the thick fern-filled distance. A fox bounded through the thick underbrush, and she paused to breathe relief in the chill air. The northern territories of Ordalia were cold and strange; Ramza had thought it best to keep away from the more the heavily populated South lest she be recognized. Bad blood from the Fifty Year's War still ran deep for both sides. She sheathed her dagger and slumped backwards to sit. Ghosts played at the back of mind, Omdoria, who she'd barely known walked through the window of her memories. He'd been a kindly man, by all means sickly and ill fit to be king, but kindly. She exhaled, breath misting in the frigid air. Leaves crackle and rustle on the hard earth, and she turns, rising to meet Ramza and Alma at her back.

"The prices in the village," Ovelia began, "Were they fair?"

Ramza shrugged, "Fair enough, far too much for an Ordalian but still far too little for one of Ivalice. It can't be helped. The matter all lies in the accent."

All three mount their steeds in silence, after loading the beasts with their goods. Ovelia pulls her cloak low over her eyes; there are some who'd pay well for the head of even a false twin these days given the very unusual circumstances of her "death". Valendia, Ordalia, and Ivalice must be crawling with false Ovelias by now. She faces forward, shaking herself from her thoughts, and the three begin to trek through the forest never saying much. Dark ferns and high maples give way to a hilly highland.

"It smells of rain," Alma remarks lightly.

Ovelia nods in reply, gazing into the grey sky.

"Then we should make haste. I'd prefer to find shelter by midday," Ramza replies.

Almost twins, Ovelia thinks lightly following after the two blondes, always finishing each other thoughts and sentences, speaking aloud only for her benefit. She dislikes this place; static dances in the sky, and a raw anticipation, her once dormant warrior's sense, awakens. She scans the hilly country. Other high hilltops are bare, but in the gully to the south something stirs.

"Ramza," Ovelia calls pointing southward into the dark gorge.

He signals for them to stop briefly, and he dismounts to observe the moving form. A struggling little thing, they note, it climbs upwards out of the deep, narrow chasm. Too small to be a man, and too hairy to be a child, Ramza's eyes narrowed.

"A goblin," he murmurs lowly, "Alma-"

His sister is too quick for him, crouching lowly, her bowstring taut, and faster than the snap that looses it, the arrow flies. Her target is far and gaining speed, but her aim after these few years of living in wilderness with him is flawless. The goblin collapses without a scream, arrow protruding from its chest. They mount quickly, traveling faster and with more caution than before. Where there's one goblin there are always more.

Lightning splits the sky, and thunder roars overhead. They need to find shelter immediately, Ovelia thinks faintly, scanning the highlands for any semblance of cover. No such luck, there's nothing save for the rolling land they traverse. Alma stops suddenly.

"A cave," she calls over the roaring wind and thunder pointing east to a hole dug hallway into the ground. They ride towards it; Ramza enters first, dismounting, leading his chocobo by its reins inside. Ovelia and Alma follow, weapons drawn ready for battle should the cave be inhabited.

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Night is frantic as all hell erupts beyond the jagged walls of the cave. Ovelia, Ramza, and Alma did what they could to fortify the cave's mouth to prevent flood in their subterranean shelter, stretching old scraps of cloth and leather for a makeshift door. Alma slept, but Ovelia and Ramza sat still awake- always two to the night's watch in alternating shifts. Both are tired, but their eyes are already too haunted to doze, and so they make for conversation instead.

"And of Agrias?" Ovelia questions softly thinking of the Holy Knight who'd acted so fiercely as her royal guard, her mentor, and friend, "Do you know what became of her?"

Ramza shrugs, his eyes dark, "We were separated, only Alma and I awoke, half-dead but together…not too far from Zeltennia. I'm sure some died…those nearest to Ajora perhaps, but as for Agrias I cannot say."

Ovelia's expression sours and she replies lowly, "Do you know of any that survived?" Ramza and Alma spoke rarely of that time- another life, another place. The duty was done, and they were the scattered, broken battalion forgotten by all of Ivalice except by very few who knew the truth of Glabados' teachings.

"A few names surfaced here and there immediately in taverns after battling…Ajora," Ramza replies, "Some were cadets who'd began the journey with me, mercenaries I'd hired along the way, and a few other companions with a similar cause…all heading for either Ivalice's dark corners, Valendia, or Ordalia," he clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with being so open after so long. Nothing remains of the idealistic boy-knight, who'd worn his beliefs and heart like medals of honor on his chest.

Ovelia places a hand on his shoulder, and he looks away. She bites her lip, and whispers almost haltingly, "I never had anyone to grieve. I attended Omdoria's funeral, but we were never close. Delita…he wasn't the type of man that I could grieve for," she sought out her words feelingly, uncomfortable speaking her mind after having had played the puppet princess for her entire life, "Your companions that may have fallen…I can grieve with you for them. I owe them a great deal. We all do," she raked a hand through her hair not too entirely sure of what she'd been offering.

Ramza remains silent for a moment, and then draws breath as if to speak before falling silent again. He raises a hand to his chin, sitting pensively, then he speaks, "Thank you, Ovelia," he pauses again, sighing, and then beginning once more, "We've been on the move, ever since the battle, Alma and I…never staying too long in one like now. Nothing changed when you joined us last month," Ramza waves his hand through the air, "Always moving, never having time to mourn who we'd lost."

"Will we ever stop this…roving?" Ovelia asks suddenly.

Ramza shrugs, nonchalant, and shifts topic, "I have a contact in a village southeast of here, an old spy employed by my father during the Fifty Year's War- neither a safe nor reliable contact, so keep your face hooded. He's the sort of man who'll sell you out for the highest bidder. You're Ovelia, and I'm a Beoulve. A few noble families may have personal quarrels with mine here, but you're a symbol of Ivalice's invaders right here in the heart of the country-"

"Why stop then, if it's so dangerous?" Ovelia looked across towards Ramza. Planning to meet this spy sounds foolish to her.

Ramza nods, "It is very dangerous, but we need information of Ivalice, of guarded mountain passes, of ways to the coasts, and perhaps of friends who may have stumbled through. In the in end, it outweighs the danger."

Ovelia nodded. In the end of things Ramza was always right. She hated the way he always made everything seem so logical no matter what the risk, even as he was now, being completely as dispassionate and every bit as embittered as she. Had he led his friends through Murond City of Death as fearlessly as he led Alma and her through the Ordalian wood and highlands and inspired the same level of loyal fanaticism in them? She rose to wake Alma; her shift in the watch had ended. It was sleeping she dreaded, behind her eyelids Delita's eyes were wide open pleading with her for his life in the reflection of her dagger against his throat. As Alma stretched and yawned, and as Ovelia made her bedroll with each blink, were his wide brown eyes, terrified and accusatory. Her breaths didn't soften with slumber, and his eyes never left her. Reliving the moment all night she killed her husband, every night, Ovelia realized she loathed serving the greater good.

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With the sun blazing high in the sky at noon, the highlands gave way to a soft grassy plain dotted with starkly white lime stones. The trio stopped suddenly, and Alma dropped from her chocobo, choking up. Ramza dismounted and ran to comfort her.

"So much…like h-h-home…j-just like Mandalia P-P-Plains," Alma sobs. Ramza pats her back, and she clings to him, crying into the crook of his neck. She really is in many respects remains the young girl who'd lived in Igros for so many years playing reed flutes, full of laughter and motherly affection for her brothers; this new life ill suits her. Ovelia watches silently, unsure of what to say- what to do. She had nothing to grieve, no one to comfort, but she remembers what she vowed to Ramza the night before. Ovelia ran to Alma's side and placed a hand on her shoulder. She remains silent but is ready to listen. Alma's tears soon end flowing away on the passing wind, and after a few more hiccupping sighs, they all remount and ride on.

"I'm forgetting Ivalice…forgetting all of those pug-nosed noble children that were my friends, and she, my Ivalice is forgetting me," Ramza whispers in Ovelia's ear drawing his chocobo to a steady pace at her side.

For a moment, she is surprised by his statement. Alma was Ramza's ultimate confidante, the keeper of all of his innermost thoughts and secrets, but here he was sharing with her his fears. She suddenly felt unsteady on her chocobo; it almost made her feel dirty- unclean to hear this martyr's worries. She stole a glance at him; his eyes were trained firmly ahead, betraying nothing. The perfect shell of a man, all porcelain smooth on the outside, but it still had its fine cracks. Then, Ovelia shakes her head quickly, "No, we won't forget. We may be forgotten but we won't forget." She feels stupid for saying that. Surely there was something more comforting, something that had more meaning to it than that, but there it was: Ivalice cared nothing for their sacrifices.

A fiefdom emerges in the green, plowed fields and their farmers toiling away underneath the harsh sun. Small dirty children run through the hay, singing local folk songs and playing games. One child probably no more than ten sat on a haystack watching Ovelia and her companions curiously and then breaks into a full laugh. Ovelia strains to return the gesture underneath her hood.

"We are close to the village," Ramza murmurs. No sooner than he speaks, a village seems to rise up pass the fiefdom in the distance. Further back sits the local lord's small fortress, an opulent little structure of grey river stone and red brick. The road to the village is empty; chocobo filth, straw, and trinkets pounded into the earth pave the road. The houses are simple- functional is the word Ovelia would give them as they pass by, thatched straw and dried mud. Ramza stops at one in particular, equally nondescript as the others in its appearance, and signals for them to dismount. They secure their steeds, and for an extra seal of protection Alma charms them.

Ramza knocks at the door once, pauses then taps thrice in rapid succession. They hear a sudden frantic scurrying in the house, pots are knocked over, a glass shatters, and a faint voice whispers through the door, "Beoulve?"

"Yes," Ramza murmurs careful as to how much he should let on. For all he knows, the man could be referring to one of his house rather than one of his family members in specific.

The doors latches are quickly undone, a small bearded face with beady eyes appears behind the door, "In, in," the man mutters, waving his hand inward. Ovelia shuffles in behind Ramza and Alma; she takes in her surroundings- the house is more of a dirty hut than anything else- pans and pots line one wall, daggers on another, and old dried rolled parchments sit on a table towards the back of the house.

The man claps his hands on Ramza's shoulders, "Well, old Balbanes' boy come here to see old Caius at last. You must be Ramza…haven't seen you since I was deployed. Look at you, a grown man now; you were always your father's very image. And your companions?" Caius questions, his eyes assessing them quickly but letting on nothing of what he knows. Ovelia notes his grandfatherly tone as nothing more than a façade; there is a sharp intellect beneath that peasant's guise.

"My sister, Alma, and a mercenary and friend, Hilda," Ramza both answers and lies.

Ovelia's shoulders almost visibly relax. She doesn't trust this man in the slightest; he feigns as if he knows nothing. She's almost certain that he knows every intimate detail of Ramza's heresy. He is a snake in the grass.

"So what brings you here, my boy," Caius walks to the back of his hut, pulling a few chairs from the table and swipes his hand over it to remove a layer of dust. He signals for them to sit. Ovelia follows behind the others and sits, silent in the furthest chair from him, the serpent, she thinks labeling him. She finds his tone is disingenuous, like a wolf masquerading in wool amongst sheep.

Ramza replies, "Information. I've been away from Ivalice for quite awhile. I'd like to know what has passed since I've left."

The other man grins widely at this, mouth full of rotting blackened teeth. He lets out a bark of laughter, "Ah yes, you have been away for awhile. Heresy is a nasty business, but don't worry about me. Never been much for the teachings of Glabados myself anyhow," his eyes darken and his tone grows lower, "Ramza, I respect you being Balbanes' son and all, but information isn't cheap, and with my back being in one of foulest-"

"I understand," Ramza answers, cutting him off, and fishes out a small purse, slamming a hundred gil on the table. Ovelia almost blanches in disgust but stops herself. Alma twitches visibly, but this goes unnoticed by Caius or so he feigns; perhaps the old man just doesn't care. Nonetheless, the spy grins and pockets the coins greedily, standing suddenly to go over to a few shelves on one side of the hut. He pulls a dusty bottle from a cupboard.

"Ale?" Caius offers. Ramza shakes his head, waving his hand. The others politely decline as well. Caius shrugs, "Ah well, I'll have myself a drink then. Can't think of Ivalice how she is now without wanting a drink," he sits again at table, a mug in hand, "Information about Ivalice is scarce around these parts…especially in the isolated northern territories. Didn't hear anything at all about your father and your elder brothers after the war had ended."

Ramza shuffles uncomfortably for a moment on his chair recalling each one of their deaths as separate frames glued to the walls of his mind. He barely registers his own voice as it supplies automatically, "My father and my brothers have all passed away," he leaves off the bitter thought of- my brothers dying by my own hand.

Caius is silent for a moment and then speaks again after taking a deep drink of ale, "Can't say I'm surprised much. My contacts from Igros flittered off soon after the war's largest battles. My only contacts then were from Zeltennia…from Duke Goltana and then from other spies fleeing the country during the Lion War. Things were hectic then and still are. I can tell you, Ramza, I haven't heard anything good of Ivalice as of late."

"Just tell me," Ramza replies looking away.

"Well, young Queen Ovelia's dead…circumstances being really funny there. The King's deader than a fire beast in water as well, both set upon by brigands in an abandoned church. The noble families smelt a lot of intrigue around that affair and contested this Olan's right to rule as regent as Ovelia decreed before her death. The aristocracy care nothing about his being the son of Orlandu or his status as the Queen's confidant, as Delita left no such word, and as he is- was King they collectively voided her order," Ovelia's knuckles whitened as she gripped the edges of the table with so much force. She willed herself to calm down and continue to listen to Caius' word, "In the end, Ruvelia, though still ousted from the throne for her crimes, demanded her son Orinas be placed on the throne. Half of the Ivalice's noble families were sympathizers to her claim as she was Omdoria's wife and agreed. Now, Orinas rules as boy king while another faction instead made Olan his adviser. So, only in word does Olan rule and only while Orinas is unable to govern himself."

Ovelia then spoke up, batting her eyes away from Ramza's glaring reprimand, "But it was the Queen's order. How could they just negate it like that? Her husband was only King consort not King by his own right."

Caius laughed, "Easily that saucy chit, Ovelia, was only ever a puppet in this whole power play to begin with, nothing more, nothing less. It's always been the gossip in many circles that her blood is no nobler than your common chocobo's. Now there's this young prince Clemence that has risen up to protest both Orinas' claim and Olan's rule as regent, and though he may be a bastard, he is real royalty."

Ramza silences Ovelia with a look, turning back to Caius to speak, "Who is this Clemence?"

Ovelia stops herself from snarling in frustration; she remembers Clemence very well- a Valendian and Ivalicean prince through Omdoria's father by a different mother. His house was weak and held even less claim to the throne than Larg's sister.

Caius answers Ramza, "An illegitimate prince of Ivalice by Denamunda and a princess of Valendia. Before the war, he'd been a sickly little dog with no fight in him whatsoever. I'm surprised Larg or Goltana didn't take his life when they had the chance. It would have been easy to blame a brigand or wild beast. None would have been the wiser," but then he pauses and turns to Ovelia and regards her oddly, "Milady mercenary, you speak very well for one used to a life of fighting. Your accent strikes me as one of the Imperial Capital. Were you perhaps one of the royal guards; perhaps you have information for me?" Caius grins widely at this, and Ovelia flushes; she is certain that her exposed neck and mouth are wholly red. She shouldn't have spoken out of turn. Her palms grow sweaty; what if she's been found out, her falsehood of identity made true?

"That is neither here or now," Ramza speaks quickly, making up for Ovelia's lack of explanation.

Caius nods his head to side oddly, studying at Ovelia through his beady eyes with a new hawk-like ferocity before turning back to Ramza, mouthing lowly, "Very well. Clemence had loose claim to both the Valendian and Ivalicean thrones to begin with. He was born out of wedlock to the third youngest Valendian princess who was nowhere in line to the throne as well. However, this ambitious cur does have his wit. Having kept to Valendia for years at a time, he is basically an unknown party to the people of Ivalice known only as a name to most- a name with noble birthright. As Orinas is the son of the disgraced queen and is viewed as being imposed upon a still very disgruntled populace, Clemence suddenly surfaces as this gallant leader- a noble set apart from the main royal lines of Ivalice. He is foreign to many, but Valendia has always been close to our noble Ivalice, and the people have begun to view him as one of their own. Perhaps he is at long last the answer to the plight of horrible conditions of the peasantry, some say. Will his rule stop the crops from failing and stave off the starvation of the commoners? No, but it will settle those peasants down. Ivalice cannot survive another massive peasant uprising, and so many nobles are starting to give him their support. It's almost laughable- the aristocracy prancing over themselves in support of a hero their serfs practically worship. The social order turned on its side," the old spy lets out a bark of laughter and continues, "He gains more support with each passing day, and you know what that means," Caius finishes ominously, grinning wolfishly at the other three.

Ramza sucks in his cheeks and exhales sharply. Suddenly, he feels as if a great weight is being pressed down onto his chest. Save the world and end a civil war almost as quickly as it began, and still nothing changes. He begins to speak softly, almost as if to answer Caius, but really only hammering the thought into his own mind, "Another war. A coup," the knight feels a hand squeeze his arm, warm and reassuring, Alma.

Alma's motherly soft tone washes over the room, bathing away the cares of Ivalice and making for another topic, but Ramza doesn't miss the bitterness, "And what of our friends. Have you heard any news of our companions- Agrias, Orlandu, and…" she drones on so many other names, but Ramza finds that he cannot focus, all he sees out of the corner of his eye is Ovelia's fever red flesh: the lower half of her face, her neck, and collarbones so brilliantly red that it's almost as if they were steamy to the touch. He wants to run his hand against hers, to comfort, almost unable to fathom what she may be feeling but refrains himself, and she remains silent. Caius didn't survive nearly as long as he did as a spy of Ivalice deep in Ordalian land by being oblivious, and Ramza will alert him to nothing.

Ramza shifts his ears and eyes to the matter back at hand, listening to Caius' low hollow voice murmur on about his friends, "Ah yes, Lady Agrias," Ramza's heart nearly stops as he recalls the image of the holy knight's gloved hand straining to reach his, blonde braid whistling in the wind, falling further and further from him into the darkness. Agrias, "She is not the same woman that she was, milady. A regimen of knights on the move found her some miles from Goug the mining city. They thought her touched in the head, and brought her to Zeltennia by Olan's order. Then, I heard no more of her. And of Orlandu, I cannot say for sure. News of him as I'm sure you know is that he was executed before the Lion War ever began, but some things of resurfaced about him sightings here and there. A few ears in Valendia say he's been seen there," Caius pauses and then goes on for a bit longer about other companions. Many headed for the foreign corners of the world, Mustadio returned to Goug, Reis and Beowulf for Valendia, Rafa and Malak back to their homeland. Some of his hired mercenaries are searching for him; Ramza listens only with half interest. He was desperate to know this information, but now all he can see is Agrias, sitting on the sill of a window in a high tower, half-mad, speaking to herself. He feels as if he needs to vomit- to run outside, scream, and vomit.

They do not tarry much longer. Caius supplies them with more information about the Ordalian land- where the traveling will be easy and where not to tarry, and he gives them an updated map which he had hidden for a large sum of gil.

"Milady," The spy murmurs as Ovelia passes out of the door. She pauses, completely still, almost as if she were in a daze both from being nearly discovered and from what he has told them over the last few hours. She knows that he is still trying to figure her out. He grins, leaning lowly to kiss her knuckles. She flushes and walks quickly to match Ramza's and Alma's stride. They mount their steeds and ride silently until sunset.

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Ovelia leans against the rough stone of the mountain's side, reflecting silently; she hasn't spoken since they left the village earlier on. Once more as with every night, it's only she and Ramza awake for this part of the evening's watch. She feels as if she must say something- make some move to comfort. An embrace? No, such an action is far too personal. A gentle touch of the hand or shoulder? No, that is far too impersonal. She wrings her hands in silence- ungloved, roughened, dirtied hands; she examines them as if she are interrogating them right down to the chipped uneven nails. Why, she demands of herself in her breathless internal voice, why did she sacrifice so much to gain so little? Her orders were voided, Olan's rule made ineffectual, and her noble land, her Ivalice, sat on the brink of yet another civil war. Had she made the wrong decision? No, she didn't shake her head to reaffirm the fact.

A small voice welled up, tiny amongst the others shouting for supremacy in her head- perhaps her work in Ivalice wasn't done. She glances over to Ramza, who is tangled in his own web of misery. His head slumped between his knees would make one almost believe he is sleeping, but Ovelia knows better.

"Clemence-" Ovelia begins.

"Agrias," Ramza interrupts.

Ovelia falls silent, and then leans across as if to embrace Ramza but stops halfway, her arm hanging loosely in the air falls and settles for his hand squeezing it in an odd sense of camaraderie. She thinks of Agrias for a moment, the brave and true holy knight who guarded her when she was still a princess of Ivalice. She thinks of Agrias as the fire blazing in the pit before the two of them, something brilliant, true, and untouchable; untouchable because Ovelia, herself, could never find it within her soul to be so brave. She took the coward's route out in attempting to save her kingdom by taking Delita's life; she'd seen it as her only course of action but there was another, more unthinkable route- divorce, and then she could have ruled in her own right. She shook her head; she'd meant to speak to Ramza, not to wallow in her own self-pitying musings.

Ovelia gives his hand another squeeze, "Agrias," Ovelia begins and breaks off, pausing to consider her next words, "Agrias. I do not believe her to be mad, Ramza."

He turns to look at her taken aback, "You heard Caius."

"Yes," she murmurs, "I heard him, but I do not believe it. She must have been very out of sorts when she was discovered. Imagine, a half-dead knight returned from one world to hers. Were you completely stable when you came back?"

Ramza shakes his head, "No. Not for the first month. Alma and I lived in the wilderness away from all civilization, fending for ourselves, feeling about not believing any of this world to be real…it was suddenly so full of life," he trails off, and his voice picks up again almost bearing a mournful tone, "Murond City of Death was aptly named. Many nights I'd awake screaming into the open air only to catch my breath and realize that I was safe- here in this world, my home."

"That's what I mean," Ovelia waves her free hand in the air, "Many would think her mad, but she is safe for now, in Olan's care. For how much longer, I am not certain."

"No," Ramza stammers quickly. He knows what the woman at his side is proposing, "I am done with gods, devils, and wars. I am finished with Ivalice and her people- commoners and nobles alike. There is too much," his voice dies and he pulls his hand away from hers to place it against his heart.

"Pain," Ovelia finishes knowingly, "I feel it too. To have lost so much only to gain so little," and then, she remembers something she asked him earlier, but now she knows the answer for herself. She looks away for a moment, to her feet, to Alma's bedroll where the girl is sleeping uneasily, anywhere but Ramza's haunted face, "But…I feel our roving must end soon," she sighs, "Ivalice. We are her servants."

The blonde knight is silent for awhile, and the only sounds pervading the air are the crackling flames and crickets off in the distance. Ovelia gazes skyward; through their mountain hollow, the sky is a perfect half-circle. The stars dance their distant timeless waltzes; heavenly bodies which were here long before she and will survive her death. She feels so small all of the sudden and fidgets with an imaginary crease in her hide leggings. Ramza clears his throat, finally reaching some sort of conclusion, and she turns her face earthbound to listen to him. She takes in his worn expression.

Dry lips part to make way for sound that first comes out as a low, raspy whisper, "We are her servants," Ramza reiterates her earlier statement. He takes her hand and repeats himself with more conviction, a sudden fire catching in his voice which she finds infectious, "We are her servants. Our Ivalice, ours to protect," he stands suddenly, pulling Ovelia to her feet, "After the end, I never stopped running," his voice grows low once more, and he draws so near to Ovelia's face that she can see the faint amber glow of his eyes, "It's time- time to retrace our steps back to Ivalice."

* * *


	2. Lift the Veil, but Shield My Eyes

Alis Volat Propiis

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_ She Flies With Her Own Wings_

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_Disclaimer: I am making no profit from this whatsoever.

A/N: I'm not really sure what made me want to center a story on Ovelia as the main character. As a character in the actual game, she functioned as more of a plot device only driving on the action …that is until the very end…after the end in the epilogue, when she attacks Delita. We see that rare flash of her own personality beyond the royal veil of playing princess; we see a deep-seated anger and a realization that she'd been used by Delita, and I suppose that after dusting off my old PSX copy and completing it again, I decided to take her as a character and build upon that entirely new Ovelia I saw in the last two minutes of the game.

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Chapter 2: Lift the Veil, but Shield My Eyes

It is difficult to say when she realized he'd been using her. Perhaps, she'd known from the beginning, and she hadn't cared then. He was like her in many respects, brought up to perform as something he wasn't. They were both frauds, he the mock knight and she the play princess. Ovelia smiled bitterly into the crook of his neck. Of all the memories of him that her mind had conjured up that night, it had to be this one. The heavy masculine scent of his sweat beneath the armor permeated her lungs, the stink of his smell ingrained in her mind still.

Why this memory, this moment…when she was at her weakest, her most vulnerable? She wanted to pull away now and dig her nails into his cheeks. Ovelia wanted to scream at him, demand of him why he'd made her do this to him. Why had he been so wonderful in the beginning? Why had he lied to her? No, he'd never lied to her; in the very beginning he'd spelt out his plans to her, and she had just been too naïve to realize that his ambition was stronger than whatever love he held for her…if any. After all he'd been more than eager to send off his own best friend to the grave for his ends.

"Delita," The name left her lips unbidden, and he drew back, cupping her chin, pointing her face upward. His mouth smiled, but the eyes were empty, ever distant far removed from her, Ivalice, and the world always caught in his own ambition.

In her dream, the ruined sanctuary stood still in time, existing as it ever was. Crumbled pillars and the few undamaged roofless spires that remain on the craggy foundation embrace open sky, and birds fly overhead unaware of she before the altar in the arms of the false hero. Who could have known that almost absolute destruction could bring such peace? The half smashed icon of a god from a long ago age almost nods to confirm her sentiment, and then her eyes return to his.

Ovelia bites her lip, knowing what he is about to say, "I will build a new Ivalice for you. I will be a hero, Ovelia. A champion to Ivalice's oppressed masses… I will become your hero..." His voice is exactly the same as she remembers it, like silk- a liar's tongue. She pushes away from him into the corridor of another memory lying against the same altar gazing down at the dark viscous fluid of his life running down her hands. She smears her hand against her gown, red against white, but the flesh won't come clean. Ovelia exhales a breathy, hiccupping sigh, crawling forward, dropping the dagger, and there he is- Delita. Those ever distant eyes are empty now- devoid of ambition, love…anything, and she screams wildly against the air. The ground shakes, the air vibrates, and birds scatter in the chill air of midday.

"Ovelia," she hears faintly, a far off and familiar voice. She cannot see; her hands are frantically moving, tearing at her hair, ripping at her royal vestments, and reaching out and grabbing at nothing. What has she done? She cannot speak…will not speak. She'd thought she was better than that. Serving the greater good by any means…weren't those his sentiments? Her pure hands had been clasped in prayer when she met him, praying for peace- praying for an end to all violence in Ivalice, and she'd just taken a life…a life which she'd professed to love.

"Ovelia," echoes the voice once more, growing stronger and increasing in clarity. She shakes her head; this was not how it was meant to be. The voice shouts again with a sudden urgency, "Ovelia!"

Earth and light return, and her face is wet. Had she been crying? Ovelia wiped hastily at her eyes, rising slowly against the pre-dawn sky. The fire had long since died, and the air is wet with dew and morning chill.

"Ovelia?" The voice questions- a low motherly tone almost admonishing her, and she feels immediately guilty. Alma.

"Yes, Alma?" Ovelia mutters, biting back another yawn. She kneels once more to roll up her bedroll, shaking free clods of dirt and stones.

"Ramza believes that we should be ready to leave within the hour," Alma murmurs tending to her own portion of the camp, "So, I thought it would be best to wake you now. We're passing slightly south today through one of the mountain passes on Caius' map to make the travel easier. Ramza's out scouting the nearby terrain; he should return soon."

Ovelia nods in reply, saddling the bedroll onto her chocobo. She reaches for a few strips of dried meat, and chews at one idly- not quite the palace fare she'd been brought up on, but one gets used it when truly hungry. She started to fish for her canteen in her pack before noticing that Alma was strangely quiet. Peering over her shoulder, Ovelia spied Alma sitting on a rock, holding her head in her hands.

Canteen forgotten, Ovelia murmurs "Alma, you seem quite disconcerted this morning. Is everything alright?"

The girl's reply is almost immediate, "What did you and Ramza speak of in the night as I slept?"

Ovelia doesn't answer immediately. Alma's tone has the other woman taken aback; she notes it as being almost…resentful. Ovelia begins slowly, "Clemence…Agrias…and the general state of things in Ivalice."

Now it is Alma that falls silent, and Ovelia thinking the matter forgotten, turns back to her chocobo tending to its needs.

"I care little for it," the other girl begins suddenly.

Ovelia is at a loss for words, "For-forgive me, Alma, I fail to understand."

"I apologize," Alma apologizes almost immediately.

"No," Ovelia stops her, "Speak your mind. I consider you a friend and value your thoughts." She turns to give the girl her full attention, and Alma flushes, raking a hand through her hair looking away.

"Ramza always places himself into danger for the sake of Ivalice. Such a thing has never been his duty…and, Ovelia, I worry for him. One day he will not survive the battle, and I will be alone," Alma falls silent suddenly as Ramza's chocobo pads through the tall grasses back into the mountain's concave hollow. Ovelia turns back to her chocobo quickly, running a hand through its red feathers. Act as nothing happened, her mind grills her, but her heart is racing. Was it a dispute that she and Alma just had…or something else all together? A meeting of the minds, perhaps…no, an unspoken agreement of sorts. Protect my brother- that was the sentiment Alma's statement radiated, but who was _she_ to protect someone? She hadn't slain a god nor had she fought men and beasts like he had. Ovelia had no skill with combat at all save for what little she's been taught.

"Ovelia," Ramza called. She turned to face him and flushed. He flashed her a puzzled expression, brows furrowing. She shook her head and mounted her chocobo. Ramza shrugged off her gesture, and motion for Alma to likewise mount her steed before speaking, "The mountain passes I spied south are otherwise clear save for a few goblins and panthers, but this region is known for the occasional minotaur or one of the undead. Also keep an eye open for brigands. Are you both ready?"

Alma and Ovelia nodded in reply, and he surged ahead of them, "Follow me. I know a clearer way through these grasses." Alma passed Ovelia by without even so much as a look alluding to their earlier conversation.

"Come, Rose Red," Ovelia murmured kicking her heels into the chocobo's side, launching off at a steady pace.

* * *

The party's chocobos slowed to a steady, slow walk along the high narrow pass. The sun sat high in the sky, and sweat beaded its way down Ovelia's neck. The ride had been too quiet...almost tension-filled. Alma hadn't spoken more than two words since that morning, and any of the fiery passion that Ramza possessed the night before had faded away with the coming of the next day. They hadn't encountered anything beyond a few chirping birds or bleating goats along the day's journey so far, and Ovelia hoped it would stay that way. Her skills in offensive magic and hand to hand combat were still quite lackluster; she hadn't killed more than the occasional goblin or panther since starting her journey with Ramza and Alma, and even those were lucky kills.

She stroked Rose Red's brilliant red feathers; the chocobo had been a good faithful companion from the very moment she'd fled with it from Zeltennia. Rose Red cooed softly, and she allowed herself a small smile. Ovelia threw her eyes forward. Ramza rode at the lead, sun glistening off of his silvery armor. She could never find a word to quite describe him; he wasn't at all like Delita whose presence exuded a certain charismatic authority, but Ramza held a muted sort of magnetism. Ovelia found something very reassuring about being near him.

She jerked abruptly from her reveries as Rose Red bolted to a stop.

"Rose?" Ovelia questioned.

Her reply was a nervous wark. She patted the chocobo's head and pulled at the reins urging it to continue. Nothing…except for another wark. It felt as if someone cracked an egg against her spine, and yolk was pouring down her neck and back.

"Ramza, Alma," Ovelia hissed through her teeth quietly. Both turned and stood stock still, faces aghast at having spotted something. Ovelia's insides liquefied, "What is it," she asked, voice rising a notch.

"Don't move and stay silent," Ramza replied quickly, "…it's a Living Bone, but what it's doing out in the daylight, I'll never know. Alma," Ramza turned to his sister quickly, but needed to say nothing further as the girl was already halfway through her chants, an orb of white light glowing around her closed fist.

Meanwhile, Ovelia tried to calm Rose Red by murmuring soothing non-words, hoping…praying that it would not move. She searched the archives of her memory for Ramza's frantic reply of Living Bone. She knew it was one of the creatures of the undead; the old textbook image depicting a humanoid skeleton possessing a calf's skull flashed through her mind. Her common dagger would do naught to such a creature. Don't look…don't turn around, Ovelia's mind screamed. She could almost feel the monster's stale breath upon her neck as it closed in on the narrow pass.

"Alma, please…faster," Ramza coaxed his sister as the skeleton closed in, slowly, hands outstretched preparing wild magic of its own. He cast his eyes towards Ovelia's wide frantic ones, "Stay still, Ovelia. Move and it'll target you. Alma…please."

"Holy!" Alma roared, her eyes snapping open, filled with a sudden eerie glow. A flare of light and sound consumed Ovelia's senses; she felt an intense heat wash over her, and then pass over her to the monster at her back. A scream unlike any she'd ever heard before filled the air, and she turned in time enough to witness the creature's dry bones shatter in powder. Ovelia sighed in relief, and turned to thank Alma. The girl waved her hand, the supernatural light leaving her eyes.

"That took too much out of you," Ramza murmured, scolding his sister. He fished in his pack, handing off to his sister a bottle of ether.

Alma nodded, face drawn, and drank. Ovelia remained silent…stunned would have been a more appropriate word. She had no idea the other woman wielded so much power; she knew Alma always had a talent for the magicks back in their days at the monastery, but this surpassed anything Ovelia had ever expected. She and Ramza both were magnificent, completely beyond any warrior save for Orlandu in skill, Ovelia reflected. She suddenly felt guilty; this past month, she'd done nothing but slow them down.

* * *

As the day stretched on from early morning into late afternoon, the mountainous countryside transformed into marshland. Small fires bubbled through the marsh, burning the air with the stench of rot and smoke, and this aided even more so to Ovelia's apprehension. The region reminded her of Zigolis Swamp, but thankfully without the tainted magic poisoning the waters. However, the land was…silent, as if it were empty of all life. She strained to hear birdsong or any natural noises at all. Nothing echoed in this nameless bog even the marsh fire burned without so much as a crackle.

Ovelia almost wished they'd taken a different route; the strange notion that something was off with this place would not leave. Even Rose Red was skittish; she ran a hand through the beast's feathers, more of an effort to calm herself than it. She glanced up quickly at Alma and Ramza, neither seemed extremely out of sorts. Perhaps it was just her nerves? A low mist moved in over the land, and the trio rode in a tighter formation through the green marshy waters.

Ramza was the first to speak after perhaps an hour of riding, and what he had to say made Ovelia's heart jump, "There's something there in the mist…following us."

"I know. I felt the creature following us since entering this place. I'd caught its eyes on us when the mist first settled, large and yellow like oil lamps. At first I thought it was swamp fire, but…" Alma trailed off. Neither spoke for a very long time, and Ovelia thought it best to keep silent as well.

Ovelia's hand went subconsciously for her dagger on her belt. She hadn't spotted it like Ramza or Alma, but the tightening in her stomach confirmed that this was the cause of the sense of wrongness she'd felt in this place. Alma's soft voice echoed ominously in her head, repeating the words "the creature", over and over. Half pictures of a monstrous humanoid flecked in greenish scales, jaws full of fangs, and wide empty yellow eyes glowing with menace danced in Ovelia's mind, kept falling apart and reforming, and each image was strikingly worse than the last in ferocity.

The first natural sound Ovelia had heard since entering this bog, roared into life when a frantic squeal shook the air, and then came a heavy crunching, bones and gods know what else shattering in single bites. She prayed silently to herself that this was not their silent stalker. As they rode on another creature cried into the open air a death wail, even closer than before.

"Our stalker grows bolder," Ramza remarked darkly.

Then, Ovelia spoke for what seemed to be the first time that day. Her voice wavered slightly, "You don't think that creature…is the one following us. Do you?" She quickly scolded herself for the foolishness of the question. Of course he'd thought it was. She'd just shown her own cowardice by asking such a thing, but still she searched his face for any semblance of guidance.

"I can't be certain," Ramza replies quickly. They both know he's lying for her comfort. His eyes scan all around them, and Ovelia damns the mist as it closes in on them, blinding them. According to the map, they are more than halfway through the cursed place, but to Ovelia the path seems endless, and then it comes, slithering along the green waters almost blending into them.

Were it not for Alma's cry, Ovelia would have missed the monster about the knock her from Rose Red's back. It unleashes a cry of frustration half like a man's scream and a snake's hiss, and the horrid bellow sets the three into action. They dismount quickly, readying themselves for combat. The monster falls back into the green waters, its long tail and hideous fangs protruding from its mouth completely hidden by its surroundings.

Ovelia glances up quickly to Rose Red, hoping the beast will not flee. It has not been groomed for war like the others, and she wonders if its innate magic will be of any use, but surprising her, it stands strong amongst the other chocobos. She falls into a battle position, summoning up everything that she had been taught in the monastery, in Agria's tutelage, and most recently from Ramza and Alma.

The monster is swift and deadly. Leaping into the sky over their heads, it careens into the water once more with ease. Everything is silent for a moment as Ovelia strains to hear the creature slither through the muck. It's toying with us, she thinks watching the water. It wounds a chocobo first- Ramza's, a grim black bird, its claws tearing at the noble bird's side. The chocobo immediately sinks to its knees, hissing softly in pain. Ovelia unleashes a battle cry of her own. It will not have time to kill the poor bird. She lunges, slashing out at the beast's back, but her dagger catches in its scaly hide.

"It's hard like steel," Ovelia shouts, dodging a wild slash of its own with a wide stumbling gait as it rebounds on her. She can hear Alma chanting a spell behind her, and Ovelia prays that the girl can be fast enough. Ramza runs before her both shielding her and attacking the creature as it marches upon them. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Alma's golden chocobo healing Ramza's steed with cooling innate magic of its own, and she's relieved. She wants to see how Rose Red is faring, but she doesn't dare take her eyes off of the beast before her.

Ramza's sword is as ineffectual as her dagger. Sparks and heat glance off of the beast's armor as his sword stabs at it. Ovelia hears him curse and frantically searches her own mind for anything she can do. Then, she stops for a moment, her eyes connecting with its wide empty yellow ones. She glances down at her dagger and smiles savagely.

"Ramza, shield me!" Ovelia shouts, there's no time for explanation. She jumps forward, as Ramza fends off the beast's claws and fangs with parrying blows of his sword. He and Ovelia are almost like one miming and timing each other's actions; she dodges as he thrusts outward, and then both of their weapons catch in the creature's claws as she shimmies inward closer to its face. She can feel the beast's hot breath upon her mouth and nose and the rumble of its snarl against her ears, and faster than she can register Ovelia's hand acts of its own accord, thrusting into the creature's lamp-like eyes over and over until nothing remains save two coagulated holes weeping tears of inky blood.

In its agony, the monster screamed and lashed out wildly, swinging wherever its claws could fly. Ramza dodged its blows, but Ovelia wasn't nearly so nimble. One hammering blow to her chest sent her sailing through the air. Pain, sound, and light melded into one as she fell into the muck near Alma's feet…and then, darkness.

* * *

_Numb._

The absence of feeling consumed all of her senses as she lay in the bleak abyss. All was dark and quiet. Was this what death was like, spending the rest of eternity in a nothingness…feeling nothing, aware of nothing?

"I can feel her pulse now," a voice murmurs far above like in a dream. Yes, her heart is beating. She can feel that.

"Ovelia," another voice calls. Ovelia, yes that is her name. She coughs and gags into the air, vomiting up mucky water. Then opening her eyes haltingly blinking against the misty air, she pushes herself onto her feet, hands latching onto another's.

"Easy now," the voice calls. She blinks, her eyes focusing. It's Ramza.

She scarcely recognizes her own voice as she speaks, "What happened?" She coughs again, her hand going to her throat.

"Easy," Ramza repeats steadying her, his hands firmly clasped on her shoulders.

It is Alma that answers her question, "I finished the monster off with a lightning incantation. It was Boco that healed you first," she looks over to the golden chocobo pawing at the ground and pats it beak.

"But," Ramza begins, "You were almost too far gone. You'd hit the water with such force we were sure that you had died on impact," he waves his hand in the air and squeezes his eyes shut as if her death is something he couldn't or didn't even want to begin to contemplate, "It's in the past now, we healed you using whatever we could…potions, elixirs…magic."

Ovelia isn't really sure how to respond. Had she really been that far gone? The obvious answer was yes. Hours must have passed. The swamp looked hardly the same to her. They'd drug her to slightly higher ground, out of the water and onto stable damp earth. The fog had lifted somewhat. Perhaps the rest of the journey through the swamp would be easier.

Her eyes went back to Ramza's then flicked over to Alma's, "Thank you. I couldn't ever repay you," she murmurs feeling like a burden more than an equal companion to them.

Alma replies softly, "No, thank you, Ovelia. Without you, we couldn't have killed the monster," she gestured over to the beast's charred remains.

Alma mounts Boco silently, and Ramza leads Ovelia over to Rose Red helping her onto the chocobo, her legs still stiff. Her chocobo coos in greeting, and she pats its great feathery head.

"I was worried about you as well, dear girl," Ovelia gives the chocobo a small genuine smile. She then glances back down to Ramza who is already halfway to his steed. He mounts in silence, and signals for the other two to follow him.

Their formation is looser this time, and the sudden air of danger that the bog held over Ovelia dissipates. She warns herself to still remain cautious; that can't have been the only creature of its kind in the swamp. She ponders lightly on what it was. It was like nothing she'd ever seen before, an aberration of nature half man, half snake- all scales, fangs, and rage. She passes the thought to the open marshy waters as Rose Red pads through the last of the muck onto solid ground and fresh air.

The sky is full of dusky reds and purples. A great deal of time must have passed indeed when they entered the swamp, Ovelia thinks. She can't help but to ponder if Delita would have tended to her so carefully if it had been he there above her as she lay dying and not Ramza and Alma; the woman squelches the thought as quickly as it rises. She will not let his ghost challenge her light mood after cheating death.

It seems almost as if their self-imposed vows of solemnity have almost shattered, but she knows better. Alma's sudden light chatter and Ramza's false smiles are only façades; when they sleep, the truth is plain enough. The land they'd rolled onto was plush and grassy, and Ovelia wouldn't mind sleeping here for the night. She feels strangely fatigued, but she supposes they all do especially Ramza and Alma after expending all of their magic to save her. Cattle dotted the landscape grazing here and there. They must have been near a farm. It would have been good for trade. She pulled her hood over her face, to keep away prying Ordalian eyes. Even so far into the countryside, she cannot let her guard down even for a moment.

Through the grasses, they wade onto a dirt road and stop for a moment to consider the map.

"We aren't very near any large villages," Ramza remarks examining the parchment, placing his gloved finger very near the bog.

"This must be an independent hamlet," Ovelia replies. Ivalice isn't without such things, but independent hamlets are few as most perish without the protection of a lord and his knights. Dusk deepens into night, and stars dot the sky as they ride along the road to the hamlet, the number of cattle increasing. Men straining under the stars place wheat in carts driven by oxen. They nod tipping their hats at the wayfarers. Ovelia nods, returning the gesture. Some palace formalities are hard to quash.

A ring of houses rise up through the wheat and the corn. In the center of the homes, a wooden square is hammered into the earth. A meeting place, Ovelia muses. They ride into the town, looking for someone to trade with. The village is mostly devoid of life save for a few patchily armored guards, holding makeshift weapons.

"What is your business here," one guard inquires looking up to Ramza.

"We are simply riding through, but hoping to trade should anything we have that interests you," Ramza replies.

"Hmph," the guard grunts, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant matter, "Your accent is odd. Understand, Ser, this is a small village and we don't want trouble. We are simple folk, and we don't trust strangers who hide their faces," he looks over to Ovelia.

Ramza assumes a diplomatic tone affecting the Southern Ordalian clip to the best of his ability, "I understand completely. We are traveling knights on a mission from South Ordalia. We'll be of no trouble to you. Lady Hilda, your hood, please."

Ovelia lifts her hood, trusting Ramza's judgment. She scarcely thinks she'd look like anything like royalty now, her face smudged in dirt and hair pulled back into a loose braid.

The guard sizes them up, seemingly accepting their explanation, "Very well, go to the grey stone house near the square, and they should have something for you to trade."

The trio dismounted and led their steeds by their reins to the squat building. Ramza rapped at the door.

"Yes," answered a warm grey feminine voice. If a voice could be grey, Ovelia mused, wondering what old grandmother's face could possess such a sweet sound. The elderly often reminded her of Simon; a light sadness swept over her at the thought of the long deceased priest.

"We were given permission by the guards to trade here," Ramza replied.

"Very well," the elderly woman answered back. They could hear the sound of latches being undone, and were greeted with the sight of a warm sparsely furnished home. The house appeared to be more of a storehouse than anything. The woman who greeted them was a squat, wrinkled little thing. She smoothed out her hair and pulled her shawl around herself to appear more presentable. A smile tugged at Ovelia's lips.

"We have gil," Ramza began.

The woman cut him off, "We have no use for it. This village shares everything alike."

"Well we have a few spare swords forged from mythril of very good quality," Alma replied, a pleasant note catching in her voice. It made Ovelia feel at ease to see the two in much better spirits.

"Now that is useful, but we have nothing of equal value for such fine swords," the woman murmured examining the blades as Alma laid them out on an empty table. Ovelia knew Ramza would loathe to part with those, but in the end it'd have to be done to lighten the load and make room for food.

"Food is fine," Ramza murmured, "We are low on vegetables and fruits."

"Then it's a deal," The old woman clapped her hands, smiling, "Two bushels of apples and leafy greens and three large loaves of bread for these three swords."

"A jug of water and one of milk as well," Ovelia bartered.

"Very well," The old woman replied, and they were off leaving the village miles behind until they stopped at a lone clearing in the grass late in the night. Continuing their unspoken tradition as with every night after a heartier meal of vegetables grilled over their low fire pit, dried meat, and bread, Ramza and Ovelia took the first watch while Alma slept.

Ovelia chewed at an apple as Ramza looked away into grassy distance, waving his hand through the tall grasses nearest to him. Ovelia passed the apple's core, to Rose Red who'd settled near her. The beast cooed in agreement, readily eating the apple. She smiled patting its beak, and then looked over to Ramza. The silence that stood between them was thick tonight. He'd let her see something that he hadn't meant for her to witness in the swamp. His anguish, Ovelia murmured internally. Nor had he intended her to see his fear as she jumped beside him to fend off the beast. He'd feared for her.

"Yes?" Ramza asked. Her cheeks flushed, _she_ had been staring.

Ovelia shook her head quickly and lied, "I was thinking of Clemence…the situation in Ivalice. It will be no simple matter reaching Zeltennia and Olan. My identity will be of an even bigger burden there than here." Clemence gave her something to think about, to focus on rather than what she considered herself as…with Ramza. Where had that thought come from? She cursed herself silently, and looked towards her feet.

Ramza seemed unperturbed, "My identity is no greater a threat than yours in Ivalice, but we do have the element of surprise on our side. Officially we are dead. If no one is expecting to see us, then entering Zeltennia will be far easier than you'd think."

The silence picks up again for a moment, and then she is aware of Ramza's eyes upon her. She looks up suddenly, quirking an eyebrow.

"You did well today," he murmurs. He was speaking of then…in the swamp, Ovelia's hand went subconsciously for her chest where the beast had struck her, "Most of my mercenaries wouldn't have attempted such a feat."

"They are wiser than I," Ovelia replies.

"You are wise enough," Ramza suddenly rebuttals. Ovelia is caught off guard by the sudden compliment.

"Thank you," she stammers, flushing.

"Unskilled, yes," Ramza continues, "Softer than most and unused to a life of combat, yes. You were groomed for finer things, but you're an apt learner," he rises suddenly and goes to his chocobo, digging in his pack. Ramza throws something at her feet, its sheen glinting against the fire light, "Use that dagger, you've outgrown yours."

Ovelia grabs the polished handle of the blade. It's heavier than the dagger Agrias gave her, the material of it is a soft red and the metal is warm to the touch.

"It's forged from the same material as a blood sword," Ramza murmurs, "It'll replenish your strength as you fell your foes."

She's unable to thank him, and throws herself at him an in embrace…this is the most emotion she has shone anyone in a very long time, "Thank you," she whispers into his neck.

He gives her back an awkward pat, "You're most welcome."

"I apologize…that was very improper of me," Ovelia murmurs pulling away retreating back to Rose Red's side. She'd forgotten herself and all of her Queen's etiquette. It has been since someone had shone her true sincerity. Delita had aided her for his own means, and her palace guards served her because she was the Queen. Those who helped her simply because she was Ovelia numbered very few.

"Think nothing of it," Ramza waved hand at her. It must have been a familial expression to be so selfless in the face of gratitude, Ovelia noted remembering Alma's similar gesture. She'd read about Zalbag's selfless exploits during the Fifty Year's War, and of Balbanes selflessness as well. The honor of a Beoulve ran deep. She often felt Ramza doubted himself especially after the ordeal in Murond City of Death, having lost so many friends, but he easily had his elder brother's aptness for leadership and his father's sense of true justice.

"We are sill a week and a half from Ivalice's borders. Tomorrow we'll stop over in one of North Ordalia's larger cities to stay in a tavern. I think sleeping under the starry skies has worn a bit thin on all of us," Ramza joked. Ovelia smiled, glad for his mirth. The Ramza that had protected her with Lady Agrias that she'd known briefly but liked was slowly returning.

Though scarcely a day had passed since they'd begun their mission; she could barely grasp that she thought her sedate self-imposed exile in Ordalia would have been best for Ivalice. Her peers would call it idealism, but she felt it was her duty to protect her noble Ivalice. Was this how Ramza felt all the time, no matter how far he'd been trodden into the earth or how many enemies he'd made. Looking at him now, she truly admired him, and Ovelia could understand why Agrias had been proud to stand by the man, she'd stood beside in battle in the bog. Upon their return, Ivalice would be in safe hands.


	3. Can't Take It In

Alis Volat Propiis

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_She Flies With Her Own Wings_

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Disclaimer: I am making no profit from this whatsoever.

A/N: As you may have already noticed, I'm following the original translation of the game. I've nothing against the newer translation, but I prefer to follow the names of places and people using the spellings I'm most familiar with. I even _prefer_ a few of the retranslated names to the original ones. That being said, I want to discuss the characters' vernacular. I'm actually rather fond of the new Shakespearean-esque retranslation of the way the characters speak, but I didn't want to alienate those who'd played the old version either (also, the verb system for older Modern English can be a bit difficult to memorize as the system for the verbs follows a pattern similar to German…hast, hat(h), and so on). So a compromise, the characters' dialect isn't too different from that of the characters in Final Fantasy XII as in the version of English they speak is still antiquated but not to extent of having to pull out a dictionary.

* * *

Chapter 3: Can't Take It In

After the first two weeks of living in the Ordalian wilderness, Ovelia hadn't missed bathing regularly. Her taste quickly adapted to the simple fare Ramza and Alma had eaten on the road, and neither had she missed her privacy. They'd grown more closely than she'd ever intended- all three almost completely in tune with each other's moods and needs, invading every facet of each other's life. When one of them was fatigued, the others would stop and rest for an hour. They'd pass most of their time in a communal silence, but grew to know one another at night during their shared watches. Ovelia learned many things of Alma and Ramza, and in turn she shared with them pieces of her own life.

Ovelia knew Alma was closer to Ramza than her elder brothers, and that her best childhood friend had been Delita's sister, Teta. She could scarcely imagine what Delita had been like as a child. Had he too laughed and ran with a child's wild eyed wonder through tall grasses? The thought troubled her; she couldn't picture her late husband as an innocent child.

Delita never spoke of his sister, Teta, to Ovelia except when he'd pledged himself to her. At another place and another time before that horrid incident that'd changed both his and Ramza's lives forever, she thought that he could have really loved her.

Ovelia wondered how Ramza had scarcely been able to so lightly smile after all of his trials at that point in their lives when she'd first met him after Delita entrusted her in his and Agrias' care. Most other knights would have been broken then. She knew Ramza had idolized his elder brothers as beacons of honor and that the old jagged scar on his right hand had come from playing with his father's sword in his childhood. There was so much that they'd shared in one short month of coexisting with one another, but there were also topics they didn't dare broach. Neither Ramza nor Alma had ever questioned why she'd killed Delita, and she never questioned exactly what they'd faced in Murond City of Death. She'd come to accept her role into their awkward trio and everything that living in the wilderness as wayfarers entailed or so she'd thought. Upon seeing the tavern that evening and the promise of a quality meal, a proper bath, and a soft bed, Ovelia nearly jumped for joy.

The heavy woodsy scent of pine logs afire in tickled her nose as she sipped at a fine red wine in the corner of the tavern furthest from its door. A fat jovial barkeep shouted different Ordalian tales, propositions, and rumors over the fast Ordalian folk music of a lively fiddle being played in front of the fireplace. The tavern was thick with people: locals dancing vigorous jigs to the music, wayfarers passing through, and vendors attempting to advertise their own shops and pawn off odd ends. She almost lost herself in the tavern's warm mood but chastised herself to remain constantly vigilant.

Hood low over her face, Ovelia appeared to be one of the many inconspicuous travelers passing through town, and she desired to keep her guise as such. She scanned through the crowded bar for Ramza's face; he'd paid gil to have a bath drawn after she and Alma had one earlier in their room. Her companion probably wouldn't be down for awhile. Alma was seeing to having a mantle repaired at the local tailor's guild, and she, Ovelia, was left here to her own devices.

The atmosphere of the tavern hadn't deceived her; Ovelia felt eyes upon her back the moment she'd entered the main room after bathing and ordered her wine. Two men garbed in greenish hued hide armor not too dissimilar to hers watched from the opposite side of the bar. They didn't appear extremely strong, but neither did Ovelia mark them as completely incompetent. One man wore a long sword openly at his side. Were they mercenaries? Her curiosity was peaked. She'd faintly sworn she'd seen them before at another town days ago. Were they being followed, she mused dismissing the thought as quickly as it arose. It'd be preposterous; if they had been followed they would have lost their trackers in the bog, but she couldn't shake the uncanny feeling ever since they'd spoken to that old spy, Caius, stiffening as she remembered his whiskery kiss ghosting her knuckles.

Ovelia fiddled with the handle of the rough clay goblet, flecking off loose bits of the material with her nails unsure of what to do next. She rose from her table making her way to the bar counter, pushing through the crowd with the feigned roughness of an experienced, embittered warrior.

She slammed her hand on the counter catching the barkeep's attention, "Another mug of wine," Ovelia demanded, hardening her voice. Truthfully, she had no stomach for a strong ale. She glanced quickly over to the men in green; they'd turned away for now at least. She smiled beneath her hood remembering a lesson Ramza had given her as they rode over the last few days to this village. Wear the persona of a knave- roughen your voice, harden your actions, and act as uncouth as possible…an act Ramza had scarcely mastered himself with his natural kindheartedness, but it was something she seemingly excelled at. Ovelia was all too used to having to wear many masks.

"Your wine, miss," The barkeep handed the mug back to the woman, the action much more careful and withdrawn than before…almost fearful; a smirk ghosted her lips. Her false persona had exceeded her expectations. Ovelia threw a few gil down on the counter and stalked off back to her table with the mug in hand only to find it occupied.

"Wine, Ramza," she offered, taking a seat next to him

"No, it's only milk that I drink," he replied running a hand through his still damp locks, "I've never had much of a taste for alcohol."

"In actuality, neither have I ever truly fancied it," Ovelia retorted lightly, pushing the mug away and dropping the persona feeling free to be herself at last. She looked over to Ramza. Always armed, Ramza wore a dagger at his side and traded his heavier armor for a lighter much more breathable set consisting of a sturdy animal's hide and a light shirt of chain-mail.

"I'm having the plate mail repaired and enchanted," Ramza murmured, noticing Ovelia's examination of his current garb before continuing on, "It hadn't really occurred to me to tell you why I've decided to tarry here for some time save for the obvious…smithies of quality and so on. There is a rumor floating around Ordalia as of late. I overheard it from the tavern master as we were checking in, and it's undoubtedly what interests our friends in green yonder," Ramza nodded to the two men Ovelia had noticed earlier.

So Ramza had noticed; Ovelia nodded to the side curious as to what this rumor was that had been slowly pervading throughout Ordalia. Drumming her fingernails against the table, she replied earnestly, "Go on."

"Three lords of Ivalice have been sighted scouting the northern territories of Ordalia planning for a possible invasion. Now, you and I both know this is nothing more than a farce. There are many travelers between Ordalia and Ivalice despite whatever bad blood may exist between the two countries, but I'm starting to believe that our friend Caius wasn't as easily appeased by gil as I may have thought. He'd taken a keen interest in you, Ovelia."

Ovelia sighed audibly remembering all too clearly the incident at the old spy's hut. She'd forgotten herself and defended the Queen's order all too plainly allowing her old royal speech to envelop her tongue. She shook her head, already beginning to apologize when Ramza cut her off, placing his hand over hers.

"Don't apologize, Ovelia. Caius, thankfully, did not reveal our identities and he mistook you for a lady having noble claim. Things could be much worse, but we must carry ourselves much more carefully now. There is one thing that troubles me though; Ordalia knows that Ivalice is weak. They could use this rumor to create problems. We may have more enemies than just Clemence. In the meantime, I think you and I should take a walk," Ramza pulled her to her feet, pulling her closely so that she was nearly crushed against his side as they pushed their way through the crowd.

Ovelia was too bewildered at first to even reply, the music of the fiddle and flickering candle lights whirling all about as she followed Ramza through the tavern. Then, her voice rose up as a whisper from her throat, "Ramza, what's the meaning of this?"

"Shhh…have a hand on your dagger you may need it," Ramza replied quickly. Greeted by chill air, the couple burst into the night loud music and frivolities far behind them. Ramza still had a firm grip on Ovelia's hand, leading her, "This way," he muttered using an altogether different tone than the one she was used to hearing from him. They made their along a back path into an alley.

"And now," Ovelia inquired, shaking free of Ramza's grip slightly annoyed by his sudden strangeness.

"We await our green garbed friends," her companion replied.

It hadn't been a minute since he'd answered that the two men entered the alley, weapons drawn.

"And may I ask as to who you are and your business with us, friends," Ramza questioned, not impolitely, but there was a certain edge in his voice that made even Ovelia wary. Standing so closely to him, Ovelia could feel his hand ghosting towards his own dagger.

"We are hired blades," one of the men replied, "And you must be the lords of Ivalice traveling abroad in Ordalia. Our employer wishes you dead."

Ovelia knew instantly that Ramza would attempt to talk the two men out of a fight by any means possible; he loathed shedding the blood of another man. Ramza waved one hand in the air, "Hail friends, we're not of Ivalice but of Southern Ordalia."

"Don't play the fool with us, boy," the other man replied. He traced a gloved finger over a jagged scar over his left eye, only one of many decorating his face and neck, "An Ivalicean dog gave me this during the Fifty Year's War when I was still a soldier in the Imperial Army. I'll never forget the accent of your country as he gloated over me as I damn near drowned in my own blood."

"Enough talk," the other hissed through his teeth, "We've scouted you for the last three days since hearing you speak, and I'm ready to go home and get paid. It'll be simple work to pick you two off without your archer mage. There are many more propositions to be taken after gutting you two and getting your little friend later."

This is it then, Ovelia thought, crouching into a low stance, her dagger at her face in a white fisted grip. No more talk…only the swift work of blades. She searched Ramza's eyes for any sign of guidance; he only nodded forward, and she understood. Charge, the simplest order a commander could ever give. Ramza dashed forward attacking the mercenary wielding the long sword; he shimmied between the man's frustrated blows lightly slashing at his arms and legs.

Still trying to play the martyr by dealing the man light blows, Ovelia frowned. She did not follow Ramza's suit; the woman stabbed outwards towards her foe's vitals dodging his own clumsy blows; she'd surprised him, and Ovelia would by all means take advantage of that. The red metal of the blade Ramza had given her almost seemed to drive on her bloodlust. She wanted to see this man who dared to assault her writhe in agony.

He slashed out above her head, and she easily dodged the blow. It was all too simple, as if the dagger gripped in her hand guided her on. She slashed at his sword hand, and the rapier he'd wielded clanged harmlessly against cobblestone. She kicked out, the steel toe of her boots catching in his stomach.

"Mercy," the mercenary gasped, falling backwards and clutching at the deep gash in his wrist, blood pumping profusely from the wound. Ovelia chuckled deeply in her throat. It had been too often that she'd been someone else's prey, but now here she was playing the predator.

"Ovelia!" Ramza called, "Stop," he commanded.

She looked over to the blonde who'd successfully subdued the other mercenary, "But," she murmured. Then horrified, she sheathed her dagger and placed a hand over her mouth. This wasn't her; this was some entirely new animal that'd reared its bloodlust on the world, "I…," it was all that she could say.

"Go back to the room in the tavern and await my return," Ramza ordered roughly, not even looking at her.

"But," Ovelia began and quieted abruptly, meeting the cold fury in Ramza's eyes. She retreated with no further protest leaving Ramza with the men; both were sufficiently injured to pose no threat to him. Reentering the tavern, its warm mood and music were both spoiled for her. Ovelia stalked up the stairs to her shared room through the throngs of people still on the main floor; they'd cleared a wide path around the woman. In the room, she found Alma back from the tailor's guild.

"What happened," the other woman asked, taking in Ovelia's ragged breaths and bloodied hands looking quite surprised.

Ovelia relayed the story of the two mercenaries, cleaning her hands in a bowl of water Alma readily provided and bathed the strange red dagger Ramza had given her; she now regarded it with a certain amount of distrust. Before speaking to Alma again, she'd changed in her soft clothes, a sturdy pair of legging and a loose cloth shirt, scrubbing at her hide armor with a hard bristled brush.

It was late into the night, and in the gloom of the candlelight large shadows played at the room. Alma read over a large manuscript of magic, working silent incantations with her fingers in the air. Ovelia looked up, "Alma," she began.

"Hmmm?" the other woman glanced over in Ovelia's direction.

"I hadn't meant to lose my wits in the alley. Ramza must be furious with me," she murmured, a depreciating clip hitching in her tone. She'd been so stupid behaving like a wild barbarian in that dark corridor.

"That was then, this was now. You were trying to protect yourself, Ovelia. Never forget that. Many warriors lose themselves on the battlefield. Ramza even lost himself back when I'd been kidnapped by Death Corps…" Alma trailed off, her voice picking up once more, "What's important Ovelia is that you came back."

"I suppose," Ovelia muttered, still defiant, content to wallow in her self reproach.

Alma clucked her tongue and dropped her manuscript, wandering over to Ovelia's side, "You'll work a hole into that armor if you keep scrubbing so hard," Ovelia lightened her hand, and Alma continued, patting Ovelia's shoulder, "You do not have to try so hard, Ovelia. You are not alone. I'm sorry for my words a few days ago; they must have troubled you. Remember, you have Ramza and me," her friend strode back over to her reading and picked up her place once more.

Ovelia smiled to herself, "Thank you, Alma."

"Mhm," came the woman's reply. Ovelia could have hugged Alma then; the woman was truly wise beyond her years. She supposed that she did have Ramza and Alma as an odd sort of family. It was true that she did trust them both with her life, and she was certain that the feeling was mutual.

The turning of a key and the creaking of their door drew Ovelia from her thoughts. Ramza strode into the room, dropping his bloodied dagger to the floor and collapsed on his bed, sighing.

"Lord Aurelius," he began. The name meant nothing to Ovelia; she fixed Ramza with a puzzled stare, "He was the one who'd hired the mercenaries. They knew scarcely anything about us; they'd just been fortunate enough to hear our accents as we were leaving the village in the grasslands. Why they decided to attack us now, I wouldn't know."

Ovelia looked away from the man, almost all to certain that he was still cross with her despite Alma's words. She searched his eyes and found nothing neither anger nor recognition. Then, Ovelia came to the realization that he was ignoring her. She turned away from the two, letting them converse while she worked at her armor, scrubbing away days' worth of dirt and flecks of blood.

"Lord Aurelius," Alma repeated and turned to Ovelia, "Does that name mean anything to you, Ovelia?"

"No," Ovelia answered truthfully, shaking her head, "Forgive me. I'm not familiar with nobility of Ordalia. I was never privileged to such information in the court, and much of what we did know of Ordalian nobility was lost in the transition between royal houses for Ivalice's throne."

"It matters not," Ramza replied quickly, "We have a name and that does matter. We also have a possible location of this noble's castle. Remember the fortress outside of Caius' village?"

Both nodded. How could Ovelia forget such opulence in the face of poverty; the grey stone fortress built more like a palace lay fixed in her mind. It angered her to remember how blind she had been to the plight of her subjects in Ivalice. She'd always been content to flounder in her own despair in those days, completely dependent on Delita to make her decisions for her. Oh if she could have back those days, her reign would have been so much different. The urgency to reach Zeltennia and Olan flared up in her once more. Just another week until the borders of Ivalice, Ovelia chanted in her thoughts.

Ramza continued, "I believe this is where our Lord Aurelius resides. I am not one for assumptions, but I can assume that Caius, ever eager for gil, sold himself as a spy to this man, and I can only assume that this foregoes whatever loyalties he held for Ivalice. Thankfully the loyalties he held for my father endured, and he did not leak our names and lied of our business in Ordalia, though made it still more dangerous for us, but in the end it cannot be helped, a man of Caius' character can only be expected to have interests that lie his own safety and purse. We should be most thankful that he did not discover Ovelia's identity. However what we must fear at least for another week is this rumor; thankfully it isn't as strong as I'd thought. This Aurelius is hopefully, for all our sakes, a minor noble with little influence just currying to gain favor, but we shouldn't have any more trouble from our green garbed friends. I've paid them twice Aurelius' offer and sent them on their way. We can trust that the gil and the injuries they received will keep them at bay and from reporting back to the Lord," Ramza sighed, leaning forward to pick up his fallen dagger and began to clean the blade.

Ovelia placed her armor to the side now sufficiently clean and leaned backwards, thinking. It was a lot to take in. She silently prayed that this Aurelius really was just a minor noble and nothing more; if this rumor grew out of proportion then she could have a problem far larger than Clemence on her hands, and that was enough to worry her. She thought often of Olan and how he fared; this situation lay distant to her, but for him it was a very near threat. She knew in her heart that he was handling it with the best of his ability; she placed her utmost faith in him.

Alma rose suddenly, rolling up her manuscript and placing it back in her pack. She teetered on her feet back and forth as if she indecisive about what to do next, "Hmmm," she murmured, "I suppose then I shall go fetch dinner. Neither of you have eaten, I assume," she looked over to Ramza and Ovelia. Both shook their heads; Ovelia recalled that she'd only had wine during the evening before the fight. Alma nodded, "Well, I'll be off. I will return within the hour."

"Be careful," Ramza called after her shrinking form as she left the room.

"I will, I'll only be on the first floor. I can take care of myself, brother," she called waving her hand.

Ovelia almost laughed; Ramza played the part of the protective brother well. It was true that a tavern could be a dangerous place for a woman, but Alma was well versed in sorcery, and like Ramza, the woman was always armed. Glancing over to Ramza, Ovelia quickly looked away her eyes catching his. A melancholy mood engulfed her; he must have still been angry with her, and he was well within his rights. She'd lost herself…almost posed a danger to them both. If she'd been somewhere else, on the field surrounded by foes, they'd all be dead because of her recklessness.

"Ovelia," she heard from across the room. It was Ramza.

"Yes," she breathed, looking over to him; she loathed his disapproval. To her, his reprimands were never loud or unkind but cut her to core like the disappointment of a loved one. She'd never had a close relationship with her caretakers before she'd moving to the monastery under Larg's order. Perhaps, her best comparison for Ramza's reproach was that of Simon, the elderly monk, whom looked after her as if he were her own father, but that wasn't the relationship she'd shared with Ramza at all. What Ovelia did know, was that his disapproval stung as if it were an indelible stain latching upon her soul.

"I apologize," he murmured. She was taken aback, and allowed him to continue without interrupting, "The whole situation had me by surprise really even though I'd known the mercenaries were going to attack, but I couldn't let you kill that man. You understand that, right?" Ramza looked up expectantly at her. She nodded, and he spoke on, "We needed information, and they were far beneath us in skill."

What he'd meant was that those men were far beneath _him_ in skill, Ovelia thought. She was nowhere as near as graceful and nimble as he in combat; after all he was the one who'd been knighted and attended a military academy. She was just a mere dabbler in the fine art of swordsmanship, and in _every_ battle she feared for her life.

"You underestimate yourself," Ramza accused as if he'd almost read her thoughts, "But, I was wrong to give you that blade and tell you so little of it," he gestured towards her sheathed dagger which lay on the floor beside her bed, "I told you that it was forged of the metal of a blood sword, but what does that mean to you besides what I told you. Nothing. You hesitate in battle, doubting your own ability, and I thought it best to give you that blade, but it is somewhat of a double edged sword. It will replenish your own health as you slay foes, but it will drive on your bloodlust in battle, heightening your own natural aggressiveness. In essence, it gives you courage. I had never thought it would affect you so dramatically…" Ramza trailed off.

Ovelia looked towards the dagger, then across at him. She cleared her throat, "I will learn to control it."

"Excuse me?" Ramza replied as if he hadn't heard her.

"I will master it, Ramza. I swear it," she wrung her hands, "I don't want to be a burden to neither you nor Alma any longer. I want to be strong enough to support myself."

Ramza chuckled, rising and placing his hands on her shoulders giving them an affectionate squeeze, "And you will be, Ovelia. I'll be sure of it. From now on, we'll spar much more often. I apologize if I've ever patronized you," Ramza flashed Ovelia one of his brilliant smiles; he was definitely falling back into his old personality the closer they approached Ivalice's border. It was purpose that drove them on, Ovelia decided, a purpose that fulfilled them and gave them life. She returned Ramza's smile wholeheartedly.

"I want to learn magic too," Ovelia murmured, still caught in Ramza's smile, "I know a few minor white magicks, but those enchantments will be of little use, and it has been so long since I've last cast the spells that I scarcely remember the words."

"No matter," joined a new voice- Alma, "I can teach you. For two mages is always better than one." Ramza walked towards his sister, unloading her burden, three large terracotta bowls of a warm stew. They ate communally, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a tight circle. Ovelia far preferred their quiet meal upstairs to sitting in the tavern's crowded main floor. She retrieved a loaf of bread from her pack and divided it between the three of them.

"Tomorrow," Ramza began between spoonfuls of soup and bites of stew dipped bread, "We shall restock our potions supply, and make for a village slightly southward of here. The travel should be easy, all flat plains for the entire day. Continuing southward, we'll find ourselves entering mountains once more for several days, and then,"

"Ivalice," Alma chimed in, interrupting.

Ramza glared playfully at Alma, "Yes, Ivalice."

Ovelia laughed then, her mouth wide and teeth flashing, releasing all of the day's pent up emotions- her self doubts, anger, and lighter mirth in one loud tensionless laugh. Her eyes crinkled, and she was almost doubled over, almost completely certain that she'd never laughed like this in her life.

"Heh," Alma began chuckling, the small laugh growing until the woman worked herself into a similar state to Ovelia. Even, Ramza laughed, and he disappeared, digging in his pack for a moment then retrieving the jug of milk which Ovelia had bartered from the elderly woman in the village they'd last been at. With it, he'd found three earthenware cups pouring a glass for each of them.

"To Ivalice," Ramza shouted, raising his cup.

"To Ivalice!" Alma and Ovelia did likewise. They downed the milk, and sat sated grinning widely at one another.

Ramza winked at Ovelia, "I know such a toast is more appropriately done with wine, but you and I never had a taste for such things."

Ovelia returned the wink, "Indeed."


	4. Captivity and Freedom

Alis Volat Propiis

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_She Flies With Her Own Wings_

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Disclaimer: I am making no profit from this whatsoever.

A/N: This and the fifth chapter which will be up in a few days will probably be my last updates for awhile. I'm starting college in a few days, and I won't have the abundance of free time I had during the summer.

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Chapter 4: Captivity and Freedom

"Agrias! Please let me in," Ovelia pleaded, pushing into the room, the locked door finally giving way. She was familiar with this tower, its highest point being a small and circular room, the smooth stone walls completely featureless. The room itself could be described as blasé save for the large window opposite the door; Agrias stood there, her sandy colored hair unbound, ragged, and dirty. She wore nothing but a long red gown which blew in the strong wind chilling the room through the open window.

The other woman turned, and smiled, "Don't pity me," arms splayed wide and hair wild all about her; her eyes shone with a feral madness. Everything seemingly happened in slow motion. Ovelia ran forward, hands outstretched to catch her mentor, subconsciously knowing all too well what the other woman was about to do.

Ovelia caught air, and Agrias' red garbed figure whistled through the wind laughing.

"I'm free! Free," Agrias' mad screams proclaimed.

Ovelia's face a perfect mask of horror, she doubled over retching.

* * *

The dream had troubled Ovelia for two days. She'd spoken to neither Ramza nor Alma of the matter, preferring to keep it to herself. Alma would be disappointed that she'd even consider the words of a liar. Caius, she thought of the spy ever since the brawl in the alley. What truths could they find in his words? Their map had been true, but what else was truth from the mouth of a liar? He'd told them that Agrias was mad, and she'd agonized over that days since they'd left his hut. The information had hit Ramza the hardest of them all, and she'd tried her best to convince him that if there was any madness at all in Agrias then it was the result of traveling between worlds and was wholly temporary, but her recent nightmares didn't leave her so certain.

Ovelia ruffled Rose Red's feathery head, and the chocobo cooed at the sudden touch. They'd passed through another village yesterday, and heard nothing more of the rumor of the three lords of Ivalice. Thankfully it hadn't spread so far in this direction; hopefully it was just concentrated around Aurelius' keep and lands. As they neared the grassy steppes marking the beginning of the mountain chain which would lead them back home, Ovelia had been struck with a certain sense of nostalgia. She yearned for the quiet of the monastery of her childhood, but she'd been a different person then. Ovelia could never return to that sort of life.

Between her worry for Agrias, the situation with Clemence, and her own homesickness, a cacophony of thoughts roared in Ovelia's head. Then, the woman remembered Alma's advice. She wasn't alone; this wasn't completely her burden to shoulder. She'd never wanted so badly to be in Zeltennia; when she'd fled after killing Delita, she never wanted to see the city again.

Ovelia threw her eyes forward, Alma was ahead of her on her Boco, the golden chocobo, and Ramza rode at the front on his grim black nameless steed. Alma told her that he'd found the beast in the wild and tamed it; the tale had greatly impressed her and she admired him even more. His armor shining in the sun, newly enchanted, Ramza was the image of a perfect hero to her. The very word, hero, had been spoiled on Ovelia's tongue for so long.

As Rose Red climbed in altitude, Ovelia took time to really admire her surroundings. Before, the land of Ordalia represented only possible threats to her- its forests harboring bandits and monsters, the flat plains home to panthers and more brigands, and its mountains holding many other beasts as well, but the chilly country truly was beautiful. She couldn't deny that she missed the warmer tropical climes of Ivalice, but a part of her heart would miss Ordalia. She ran one hand through the tall grasses reaching her knees as she rode on, savoring the deep greenness and health in them; dew still clung to every blade as if it were morning though it was truly closer to noon.

The temperature had begun to drop as they rode on, and her breath misted in the air. Then, a whistle caught her attention from ahead; Ramza was signaling them to halt.

"We'll rest here for two hours," Ramza shouted from ahead. It was true that they'd been riding since early morning. Ovelia dismounted, feeling the cramp of riding for many hours in her legs. The trio instantly set to making the semblance of a camp on the shadowed side of a hill; Ovelia set the chocobos to grazing only a short distance away.

The woman returned to the smell of roasting meats and vegetables in a crude metal pot over a small fire pit. Her stomach growled in complaint at having not eaten since before dawn, and Alma tending the meal chuckled.

"It'll be finished in thirty minutes' time," Alma assured her.

"It's just a matter of waiting patiently," Ovelia chattered amicably.

Ramza rounded the bend from whatever business he'd been off to since they'd made camp.

"Ovelia, spar," he called to her.

"You'd best be off, then," Alma murmured looking up to her, smiling knowingly, "You'll make a fine warrior someday, Ovelia."

"You jest," Ovelia replied, "You have more skill with the bow and your brother with the sword than I could ever hope to have with the dagger."

"Just have patience," Alma retorted, "With practice, your abilities will flourish."

Ovelia ran off to Ramza's side then, drawing her dagger. Ramza did likewise, signaling her to stand in a fighting stance.

"Today we'll work on your footwork," he looked to her feet, "You are too rigid. Stand so stiffly, and you'll signal your enemy to your every move. Know this whether you face human foes or beasts. You should worry about this even more when facing a beast; the knowledge of war making is instinctively equipped to their kind."

Ovelia took Ramza's words to heart, and loosened her stance, leaning slightly to the left.

"Straighten up, Ovelia," he ordered, "A slant in your stance decreases your range of attack," she vaguely wondered if Ramza ever knew how terrific of a military instructor he'd make for training knights. His education represented itself well. Ovelia straightened, unused to the new stance, but it was all for the greater good. Ramza cleared his throat, "Now, begin."

Ovelia charged forward, the flat of her blade slashing out at Ramza's side so that she'd do no lasting damage. Such precautions weren't needed as Ramza easily dodged her blow. Remain calm, she chanted internally. She wouldn't let herself get frustrated. She tried a different approach, feinting to the right then slashing out to the left. Still no such luck, Ramza dodged the blow as if he were reading her mind.

Now it was his turn to lash out, Ovelia dodged backwards, stumbling, barely missing his blows. He grazed her side lightly, "If that'd been a real blow, you would have been fighting for your life right now, Ovelia. Faster!"

Ovelia was dodging as quickly as she could; she didn't have to be reminded how close she'd been to death before. Grinding her teeth, resolute, Ovelia went for Ramza's sword hand, the blow which had won her the battle in the alley, but to her surprise he'd struck out at hers first, and it was she that fell backwards nursing the pain in her hand.

Ramza sheathed his dagger, and extended out his hand to hers, helping her up. She bent low to pick up her own blade and sheathe it, embarrassment burning her features.

"Never count on what your foe will already know, Ovelia," he murmured.

"That was awful," she replied, lowly.

"No, that was much needed practice, and you'll be all the better for it. You have a natural quickness and skill with a blade," then he echoed Alma's earlier words, "You'll make for a great warrior, but until then, I smell Alma's cooking, and I'd say it's time for a well deserved meal."

* * *

Free from thoughts of Agrias, Ovelia turned her thoughts to the court of Zeltennia. She pondered how Olan fared. Did he miss her? She certainly missed him; he had been one of the few people in Zeltennia that she'd felt any semblance of friendship for. She'd loved her husband with that an all consuming hero worship for all that he'd proclaimed to do in her name, but she'd always been slightly fearful of him. The thought to consider Delita a friend had never even crossed her mind. Her only confidant was Olan.

He probably hadn't been prepared at all to deal with Clemence, but she was certain that Ivalice wasn't caught in civil war quite yet, despite Caius' words. The trio had decided earlier that what he'd said about Ramza's companions and Clemence had been thoroughly truthful, after hearing the latter rumor echoed in a pub.

She pictured Clemence as she remembered him, lithely built with a slick of chestnut hair pulled back and bound. Ten years her senior, he'd stood near his mother during the entire dinner party they'd both attended, seemingly timid but very observant. She'd been nine then, and she was twenty-two now, that'd place him at thirty-two. She remembered Omdoria, her father, hadn't cared much for the boy, his young illegitimate brother; their shared father, Denamunda, was away at war as the Fifty Years' War was at its height. It was hard to picture that this boy...no this man was the root of all Ivalice's new unrest. Ovelia certainly gave him much more credit than she used to, once seeing Clemence as the very mask of weakness after a few more encounters with the man before she'd been sent off to live permanently at the monastery.

The trio's pace at which they'd begun traveling significantly slowed as the terrain roughened and the temperature continued to plunge. Alma had compared the temperature to Goland's, the coal city high in the mountains back home at Ivalice. She'd told Ovelia that it was very likely they'd see snow before their journey was over for the day, and it was true. A few white flakes of ice began to waft down from the heavens, Ovelia shivered with an almost childlike joy. She'd seen snow only very sparingly having spent the majority of her life in the very warm monasteries in Southern Ivalice.

During one of their many nights of shared watches, Ramza told Ovelia that it'd snowed a great deal during the winters in Igros, and he'd delighted playing in the snow as a child with Delita. He'd spoken his friend's name very haltingly, unsure how Ovelia would take it, but she assured herself that Delita's name no longer brought any feelings of malice to her mind.

Ovelia ran a hand through her hair, wiping free a few loose snowy flecks. The wind had picked up, whistling through higher mountain passes bringing more snow. The landscape quickly transformed into a realm of white all high snow covered pines, rocks, and earth. The sky was a pristine blue, and all birds save for the occasional hawk or eagle were scarce here.

They'd stopped for another short rest, very brief only to reequip themselves with heavy hooded mantles and for Ramza to peruse the map, Alma and Ovelia shielding the parchment from snow.

"There'll be no more villages until we reach Ivalice. So we'll be sleeping under the stars until then; if we're fortunate, we'll find an uninhabited cave," Ramza traced their path through the mountains with his finger. The next few days were going to be a trial, Ovelia's internal voice chimed.

* * *

In a lavishly decorated room high in Zeltennia's Imperial Castle, a brunette man in richly decorated robes sat across from a woman in a chair situated near a window.

The man studied her intently, "Agrias," he spoke softly as not to alert the woman, "Anything…anything at all today?" Her sand colored hair had been scrubbed clean as was she by earlier attending nurses; she'd been dressed in a proper white dress. Her once beautiful face prematurely aged; wrinkles were set deep around her eyes and forehead. The man raked a hand through his hair, yet one of many problems he'd been called upon to tend to as regent, but he promised Ovelia he'd look after the kingdom that Ivalice would flourish under his reign. So far, Olan would assess this endeavor's result as far from exemplary.

Then, suddenly Agrias perked up, "Darkness," she stammered, "Dark, my eyes are dark. Ramza," her breath hitched with fear, "I'm falling! I'm fading," she screamed.

Olan clutched at Agrias' arms to keep the woman from injuring herself again, "It's not real, Agrias. It's all an illusion."

"My sword!" Her cry pierced his ears, "Where's my sword? Oh god, the devil killed our summoner. Ramza, run. She's coming. She's coming," Agrias' sudden outburst was traded for a series of spasms. She flung out her arms and gyrated in her chair, Olan fought to steady her.

"Help!" Olan called to the door of her room, knowing a mage and guard were posted on its opposite side at all times. The two came rushing into the room.

"Sleep," the mage intoned, the spell hitting Agrias; her protests calmed instantly, and Olan carried her over to her bed, covering her up. He left the chamber leaving the mage at Agrias' bedside and the guard at the door.

Olan had summoned the kingdom's best physicians and mages but none could cure her ailment. He'd exhausted his own expansive library at his family's personal estate, trying to find the cause of her madness. The ravings of her lunacy chilled him. Whatever horrors had driven so strong a knight mad he never wanted to encounter. He'd decided that it'd be best for her be kept under an enchanted sleep as often as possible, though he loathed seeing her so.

As he strode through the long hallway, lords, ladies, and servants of the court bowed their heads to pay their respects to him as regent. Regent, he scoffed in his mind, to a brat that shirked his lessons and was poisoned by his mother's lies during his monthly scheduled visitation to the castle in which she was imprisoned in Lesalia. She'd cried that a mother shouldn't be denied the right to see her child, and the noble faction that opposed him agreed with the ever power hungry banshee. Olan sighed, but Orinas was young, only four years old and still very much a boy. He could hardly blame the child for his behavior; Olan would see that he'd be properly brought up if only he could keep Ruvelia, the boy's mother, from ruining him.

Olan pulled back the door to the royal meeting chamber finding at least a dozen attendants, couriers, and advisors waiting to converse with him. He waved a hand signaling for them to wait and sat at his desk.

"You first," he said pointing to the attendant nearest his desk.

This attendant was small mousy haired woman. She wrung her hands, "Health, your majesty."

"Formalities aren't needed in this chamber," Olan retorted, looking down at a scattered series of letters from dukes, lords, and marquises throughout the kingdom. The new Marquis of Limberry complained of rising unrest amongst his peasantry. He gazed upward to give the woman his full attention, "Speak."

"Nobles supporting Clemence have been seen ransacking Orbonne Monastery, milord," the girl replied, unable to completely discard Olan's title.

Olan's eyes screwed up in a razor like stare, "What would take them to that damned place? Orbonne has been abandoned since the end of the war, anything of value already pilfered by knaves and brigands."

"I know not, milord," the girl replied, "Our eyes there said they saw the knights retrieve a parchment of some sort, however."

Olan nodded, now curious as to what the document said, "Look more into the matter and report back to me as soon as possible."

"Yes, milord," the woman scurried off.

"Next," he signaled to the courier behind that had stood beside the woman silently waiting his turn in line to speak to the regent. The man handed him a letter.

"Milord expects a reply speedily," the courier murmured graciously, looking towards his toes unwilling to look Olan in the eyes.

Olan sighed, frustrated, "I haven't the time at the moment. I will send for you to return to this chamber within a few hours for my reply," he placed the letter to the side and spent the next two hours dealing with the others in the room. Luckily, he hadn't been told anything as troubling as the news of Clemence's men in Orbonne. He was used to hearing news of peasant revolts and growing unrest in Ivalice; he loathed that the drought still continued in Gallione and that there was very little that could be done. He'd emptied nearly half the royal coffers attempting to appease the poor, and that was working slowly but steadily. All he had to have was patience. In the end, hopefully it'd work against Clemence, who the commoners had begun to view as something of a people's hero. Just like Delita, Olan thought darkly.

Having the next few hours to himself, before Olan had to return to the dreaded chamber, he strode onto the lands surrounding the castle having a goal in the mind, the castle's crypt. Two knights walked at his side; Olan loathed being followed by the guards, missing his old freedom but such things were for his own good.

Tracing a familiar path to the low lying stone structure half submerged into the earth, Olan stepped inside the crypt, an eerie mood sweeping over him. The true royal crypt lay back at the old imperial capital, Lesalia, housing all of Ovelia's forefathers, but Olan had two impromptu graves made here for Ovelia and Delita. He'd never dare desecrate the true royal crypt with a bastard like Delita.

This crypt housed many royal cousins to Ovelia, mostly Goltana's forefathers. It was said that one true king of Ivalice whom had died hundreds of years ago was housed somewhere deep inside the crypt. Olan passed dusty corridors and shelves lined with the skulls of knights and attendants, their bodies buried beneath the stone floor of the tomb following tradition.

Down another set of stairs and through a long grey corridor, Olan found his destination. He turned to the two knights at his flanks, taking a torch from one, "Await my return at these doors."

Alone now, Olan shut the marble doors behind him, journeying through another short corridor, and reached a small rectangular chamber. The room housed three raised graves, two occupied and one empty. He strode by the first coffin, a small rectangular box of marble, spat on the second, and stopped the third.

"Hello again, Ovelia," he greeted full well knowing the woman wasn't dead, but that she'd escaped to a simpler existence far from Zeltennia, "I pray that you are happy wherever you may be at the moment," Ovelia decided in the end that it was best that he didn't know where she'd gone; it made the guise of her death that much more believable, "But, know that I haven't failed you yet. I'll save this kingdom by any means possible."

Olan suddenly shifted topic, looking back to the corridor behind him for a moment and turned back to Ovelia's grave speaking to her as if she were there, "I apologize about Agrias' state. I've done everything I could for her. We do the best we can here to see that she's safe, clean, and well-fed, but what sort of life is that? I try not to despair, but my thoughts have been dark of late," Olan began to walk from the chamber to his awaiting knights, but turned suddenly to Ovelia's grave once more, "Health, my friend," and then he was off without another word.

* * *

An hour after the sun had fallen behind the high peaks, a low growl caught Ovelia's attention. Ramza and Alma were a small ways ahead of her, and she scanned the nearest ledges for the source of the sound; snow obscured her vision.

"Ramza…Alma," Ovelia called softly enough to not alert the creature that'd made the sound but loud enough for Ramza and Alma to turn towards her. Catching her expression, they rode to where she stood.

Ovelia shook her head, "I'm certain the noise was an animal's growl, but it could be the wind's howl."

Alma surveyed their surroundings, "The snow hides almost everything up high."

"We should ride in a tighter formation," Ramza suggested.

"A sound notion," Ovelia agreed. They rode on for many hours until it was late into the night, Ovelia's unseen predator never revealing itself. Ramza finally decided that it was best they made camp. Spending another hour searching for a cave and not finding one, they settled for an area of the open earth where the snow was the lightest. They shared a meal of cold dried meat; making a fire had proven impossible in the windy mountains. It was Alma that suggested they sleep closer together that night with the chocobos huddled near them for warmth.

Continuing their nightly tradition, Ovelia lay against a sleeping Rose Red staring into the nighttime gloom with Ramza at her side as Alma slept. Neither really had spoken since they'd begun the watch, and so Ovelia passed the time thinking. Her mind ghosted over thoughts of Olan. How had he been faring? Did he still think of her? This was followed by a similar series of questions, and then she returned to the nightmare. Agrias…Ovelia's insides froze thinking of the other woman, and then a new thought unfurled in her mind completely unbidden as if it had floated in from the outside air on the drifting snow. Ramza had seemed to care for Agrias quite a lot. How deep did that affection run?

Glancing over to the man in question, Ovelia's cheeks colored. She ran a hand through her hair, a nervous habit. Her train of thought had seemingly become more increasingly derailed whenever she was near Ramza. Ovelia audibly sighed in frustration.

"All well?" Ramza questioned, glancing over to the woman.

Ovelia waved her hand in air, "Fine…all fine," she wrung her hands and looked down to her feet. Since when had she worn her emotions so openly? Hadn't she been groomed for better? When she was Queen, no, even a princess it had been her lot in life as royalty to contain herself; she remembered her only emotional outburst occurring when she'd discovered the true validity of her noble birthright and cried her way into Delita's arms. Nothing was logical now; she'd fractured into many little pieces which coexisted as separate entities in one body. There was the Ovelia that was ready and all too willing to assume the role of warrior queen, and then there was the woman she'd always been, shy and quiet.

"Ovelia," she heard Ramza call to her softly at her side.

"Hmmm?" Ovelia never looked up from her feet still lost in her thoughts.

"Are you sure that you are fine? You're very quiet tonight," Ramza began and continued, "I hope you're not angry with me over the sparring session earlier; I know it was quite different than our earlier lessons. If it's too much, too soon-"

"No, that's not it at all," Ovelia murmured. _I just believe I may be beginning to feel emotions which aren't appropriate for me to feel for you_, she left off, saying instead, "I'm just troubled tonight."

"Ah," Ramza replied knowingly, understanding nothing, "It's Clemence."

"Yes," she lied, licking her lips, "I am worried for Ivalice. It has been troubling me for the entire day," that had been truthful. Clemence and Ivalice had occupied a good portion of her mind throughout the day.

"Something has troubled me as well," Ramza replied lowly, looking away suddenly from Ovelia, staring off into the night's gloom as if he couldn't look her in the eye, "It's a selfish thought. I know it. You'd be most disappointed in me, Ovelia."

Ovelia's eyes widened; the man who defined selflessness having a selfish thought? Impossible. She had to know, "What is it?" she breathed.

Ramza blushed and scratched his hair, "I am ashamed. While you so selflessly worry for the welfare of Ivalice, my thoughts haven't nearly been so magnanimous. I've tried to think solely of Ivalice, but I confess my mind is divided by thoughts of Agrias' welfare. It's foolish of me, but I cannot banish Caius' words from my mind. I wouldn't be able to bear it if she were mad."

Ovelia's heart fell, and suddenly she was the one who felt ashamed. The woman was her mentor and guard; she'd protected her with her life often almost at the expense of her own many a day when Larg had been out for her blood, and here she was having the audacity to feel a petty jealousy over a stupid infatuation. There, she'd admitted it to herself finally, after having spent the last week denying it. Ramza was so completely different from Delita, almost his opposite, and she couldn't help but find herself drawn to him, captivated by him. His actions reflected nothing but true nobility; she'd found any excuse to catch spare glimpses of him even though she and he were together nearly the entire day, every day for the last month. What right did she have feel any ill will towards Agrias or his love for her. Hadn't she, herself, agonized over Agrias and her wellbeing after her nightmare for two full days, but she couldn't cast aside of her paltry spite for any love that Ramza held for the woman.

"I understand completely," Ovelia replied, her tone unrecognizably hollow. She damned herself for her insincerity…this jealousy was entirely an animal reaction.

Ramza mistook her tone for one of anguish and patted her arm, "But, we mustn't despair. The truth will be revealed when we reach Zeltennia. Until then, I promise you that I won't let my personal feelings cloud my judgment."

_Unlike, I,_ Ovelia thought bitterly, not voicing her reply.

A roar split the air, undoubtedly the creature Ovelia heard earlier. Never a dull moment, Ovelia thought almost happy for the distraction. While Ramza woke Alma, Ovelia rose to her feet, drawing her dagger. The chocobos were up in an instant, hissing at their approaching enemies.

Then, Ramza was at her side, sword drawn, and Alma readied her bow from the rear. Now, they waited. Hot breath misting in the air as they padded through the snow, their great paws slowed to a predatory march, eight panthers stalked through the white line of falling snow in a perfect half circle into Ovelia's field of vision like ghosts; the snow created an odd aura around their great golden bodies. Ovelia understood instantly what the panthers were doing; they were boxing her and her companions in so there'd be no escape.

Alma let an arrow fly, downing one panther instantly. One down, seven to go, Ovelia mentally cursed. Rapidly reloading, Alma wounded another in the leg; the creatures wised up, and charged before giving Alma time to pick off another. Now, it was time for her to act, Ovelia thought falling into a battle stance remembering what Ramza had taught her.

Straighten up- she could almost hear his voice in her head, her eyes focused on one that had zeroed in on her in particular. She charged forward, dodging the panther's vicious bite. She slashed at the mighty beast's side, and it yelped in pain returning a ferocious scratch of its own. Its great clawed paw caught in Ovelia's leg. She screamed but didn't halt for a moment, stabbing upward underneath the panther's throat. That was the blow that finished the beast.

Another of the great cats whistled through the air landing at her side, dead, a chocobo's talon marks set deep in its flesh. Had it been behind her? She turned and Rose Red warked in reply, pawing at the ground before launching itself at another of the beasts. Three were dead by Ovelia's count. She turned to Ramza, two more lay at his feet, and at some point in the mêlée Alma had turned to magic, the singed smell of another panther's flesh reaching her nose. The chocobos made short work of the other two, and then as quickly as it began, the battle was over.

Staggering over to Alma and Ramza, Ovelia suddenly became aware of the full extent of her wound.

"Ovelia, you did well," Ramza began ready to congratulate her on slaying the panther alone; he stropped abruptly catching sight of the horrendous gash along Ovelia's leg.

"Anything for your approval," Ovelia murmured, her words slurring. Dizziness overtook her, and she collapsed onto her side.

* * *

"Traitor," Agrias accused, her beautiful features made harsh when her face was contorted into such a frightful mask of anger.

"No," Ovelia shook her head, waving her hands. She was half appalled by Agrias' smashed form, rivulets of blood, fragments of bone, and flesh framing her body. Her legs were obscured by her red robe, and Ovelia was half disgusted with herself at being repulsed by her friend.

"You left me when I needed you…stole my freedom away," Agrias laughed, a certain madness catching in her voice.

Ovelia stammered, "I tried to save you, Agrias, tried to stop you from jumping-"

"Liar!" Agrias screamed, "You were the one that pushed me. Don't you remember?"

"No, I would never. Agrias, I would never harm you. I wanted to help you… I want to help you still," Ovelia cried, tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes.

"Help me?" Agrias laughed, "Look at the state of me. Rob me of sight and body," the woman pointed an impossibly broken arm towards the tower's highest point some seventy feet in the air from where the two were now.

Ovelia sank to her knees, wiping at her eyes, "Agrias, you were the one to jump. I tried to stop you," she repeated, her voice breaking.

The other woman laughed again and lapsed into a coughing fit, blood spraying upon her lips. Then, her eyes turned fiery once more, "_Manipulator_," Agrias spat.

* * *

"Never!" Ovelia screamed, fighting against a pair of strong arms holding her down. She was no manipulator; her vision cleared and she peered upward into Ramza's face. Alma was at her leg. .

"What happened?" Ovelia inquired, feeling a headache coming on.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Ramza replied cheekily but she could see relief plainly in his eyes.

"Oh," Ovelia exhaled her mouth a perfect circle. It all came flooding back, the battle and the wound from the panther.

"Lucky for you," Alma chimed, looking up from Ovelia's leg, "the wound was shallow. Unluckily though it was poisoned. A panther's claws are its most dangerous accessories. It's never the bite you should fear."

Ovelia groaned, still lagging miles behind both Ramza and Alma in wisdom. Closing her eyes once more while Alma tended to her, Ovelia muttered, "How long was I unconscious?"

"You never really were," Ramza answered her looking away, "You were delirious. Nothing you said made much sense to either of us."

Ovelia's eyes popped open, "What did I say?"

"Most of it was rather slurred and incoherent. You did mutter something about a window though," Alma answered the woman, rubbing a strange salve over Ovelia's wound; a sudden coolness pervading throughout her leg. The injured woman sighed audibly, relieved.

"Worried you'd confessed a deep, dark secret aloud for us to hear, Ovelia?" Alma retorted, wagging her brows. She then chanted a quick curing spell over the wound, the flesh mending anew.

"Catty, catty, girl. What cheek," Ovelia countered.

Alma gave Ovelia's knee a pinch.

"Ow," the woman replied in protest squirming underneath Alma's touch. Despite all of her motherly ways, Alma had a playful soul.

"All cured then," Alma replied, "There's nothing that can be done for the leggings though. If you want to wrap a bit of bandaging around it to keep out the cold, then that's fine by me."

Ovelia pulled herself to her feet, bandaging the torn fabric. She'd have to purchase new armor in Ivalice, and that's all there was to it. Hers had been significantly worn as it was, even before the panther's attack. She glanced over to Ramza who'd been strangely quiet, and then a statement that had been forgotten until now arose in her mind.

Anything for your approval, the phrase echoed in her head. Ovelia's features flushed.

"Still feeling out of sorts?" Alma asked, looking at the girl.

"No, I'm fine," Ovelia shook her head.

"Good," it was Ramza that spoke then, "With fresh blood on the air, I think we should resume travel early. I wouldn't want to be here for any other monsters these carcasses attract."

Ovelia nodded. It was sound judgment. The three hastily cleared up their camp and soon found themselves on the road again, starlight guiding them on. _Ivalice_, Ovelia's eyes were set forward on her homeland though all she could see in the immediacy were Ordalia's high white peaks, _I return to you_.


	5. Filthy, Proud, and Beautiful

Alis Volat Propiis

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_ She Flies With Her Own Wings_

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Disclaimer: I am making no profit whatsoever from this story

A/N: Sorry for the delay on this chapter. I was a bit stuck in how to approach the next leg of this story, but I finally got it out. Read and review. 3

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Chapter 5: Filthy, Proud, and Beautiful

As the first hints of lightening purple graced the pre-dawn sky, Ser Carolus rode into Dorter Trade City swiftly and quietly. The streets of the city lay silent, all business of day having not yet begun and the less savory business of the night having just ended. He bypassed the more respectable streets on which noblemen and newly rich merchants resided, instead taking a path seldom traveled by one of his noble breeding.

His blue cape marking him as one of the Hokuten flared outward behind him as he urged his chocobo to ride even faster. Who knew what eyes watched him from high dark windows in the buildings at his sides. All that he knew was that he mustn't be seen. It wasn't the first time during early morning that he rubbed at his brow, wiping away nervous sweat. Carolus' hand ghosted to the leather satchel hanging at his side, and he recoiled as if burned through the mythril gauntlet he wore.

"Hail to you, Ser," a voice came from one of the darker crevices of the street.

The knight's heart nearly stopped, and he turned suddenly recognizing the speaker, a seedy little man, as his contact. The man waved him over, and Carolus did as he was bidden riding over to the man, handing off the leather satchel glad to be rid of it.

"Milord rewards well for loyalty such as yours, Ser," the man replied, taking the satchel eagerly; his dirty nails and fingers rubbed the leather casing greedily.

"Well do be swift about it," Carolus replied frustrated, he looked behind at the buildings at his back. The windows were empty, and he was sure he hadn't been seen.

The man chuckled darkly, "Fear not, Ser, none of your Hokuten friends loyal to Ruvelia will have seen you; I assure you that we are alone," he shifted topic, "You've done a great thing by delivering this to us."

Carolus hadn't felt like he done a great thing. He felt like a traitor, his heart pounding in his chest and his palms sweaty beneath his gauntlets, but the allure at having so much more than his title and scant lands on the fringes of Gallione had drawn him to this end.

"Take these baubles for now," The man bade him, giving Carolus a purse of rather sizable gems, "But, know that you will be made a commander of men when _he_ rules, Ser."

* * *

Olan toweled away at Agrias' chin lightly with a soft cloth; it humbled him to see her in this subdued state after having cast a series of spells on her to inhibit her violent spasms. It was all part of the ritual that he'd repeat twice more during the day just to feed the woman. He owed her at least that, and he was here everyday as often as time permitted to look after her wellbeing hating that even with all the time he spent at her time, hired nurses still ended up caring for a majority of the woman's needs.

"How are you today, Agrias?" Olan asked, looking down to a bowl filled with a soft but palatable mush of oats and crushed fruit. He received no reply, but that was to be expected. He spooned small portions into the woman's mouth, checking every so often to see if she swallowed. Then came, the next and most difficult step, seeing to her drinking something, usually quite a bit of it ended up on his robes, and he'd try his hardest not to be frustrated with the woman, reminding himself that she deserved his utmost patience.

Having completed the task of seeing to her first meal of the day, Olan filled the silence with mindless chatter.

"The morning is beautiful through your window today. I've always loved sunrises since I was a child, and I'm certain the day will be temperate. Had I not so many duties to attend to, I would journey to Finath River as I did in my youth and try my hand at fishing. Father had always been the best at the sport…" Olan trailed off into an uneasy silence. It was always hard speaking to Agrias and never hearing her voice answer back. Her head was tilted to the side, her eyes glazed over all day seeing neither sky nor sun. Olan sighed.

A sudden knock at the door freed Olan from his discomfort, "Enter," he called.

The door creaked open tremulously, a woman, Olan quickly recognized as Orinas' nurse poked her head through the door.

"Yes?" he inquired, his tone short, gazing at the woman. He did not like being interrupted during the time he spent with Agrias.

"It's the boy, milord. He wishes to speak with you," the nurse replied, her voice quivering. She was given to such timidity that Olan hadn't been sure she'd make a good nurse to Orinas at all, but she'd proven herself. He often wished that she wouldn't stammer so around him. Olan didn't want to be considered a tyrant.

Sighing, Olan waved a hand inward, "Send him in then," he hadn't really wanted to deal with the boy just yet that day having awoken in low spirits, but he'd entertain him regardless. It was his obligation to see to the boy's wellbeing as his regent.

A curly haired little blonde boy looking no more than four years of age tiptoed in the room, pushing by the nurse's skirts. The nurse curtsied, giving the three leave and closed the door behind her. Then, it was just Agrias, Olan, and Orinas in the room.

"You did not see me all yesterday, Uncle," Orinas accused, hopping onto Agrias' empty bed, jamming his thumb into his mouth.

"Forgive me, your majesty, I was most busy yesterday," Olan readily supplied. The boy was given very frequently to tantrums, and he wanted to appease Orinas as quickly as possible.

The boy lost interest and looked over to Agrias, pointing at the woman, "She's the mad woman isn't she, Uncle? What did you do to anger her?"

Olan's eyes narrowed and looked towards the boy, "Where did you hear that word?"

"Don't be angry, Uncle," Orinas replied quickly, "Everyone calls her so."

Olan nodded his head to the side, thinking. He'd have to remind his court to mind what they said around the boy, "She's not mad in that sense, your majesty. What everyone meant is that she is a very ill woman."

"Oh," Orinas' face a mask of sudden understanding. He looked up to Olan, suddenly, his small features contorting into worry.

"Is something wrong, your majesty?" Olan asked concerned.

"Mama often calls you so when I see her," the boy began, "Are you sick, Uncle? You won't die will you," Orinas moaned. He balled up his fists and pounded against the bed, "I forbid you to die, Uncle."

Olan chuckled, amused. So, Ruvelia had called him that. He wondered what else she'd told the boy during their scheduled visits. Olan shook his head at the young King, "Noted, your lordship, but I am not mad. Do tell your mother that she is a pox riddled wench for me during your next visit, milord."

The boy's eyes lit up at hearing the new words, "What does that mean?"

The regent laughed once more, "It means that she is very beautiful, your majesty.

"Mama will thank you for the com-pla-ment," Orinas squealed with delight, struggling with the last word a bit.

Olan rose from his chair across from Agrias', and ruffled the boy's curly hair, "I'm sure she will."

Another knock came at the door, this one much heavier and more urgent.

"Enter," Olan commanded. In strode his advisor and longtime friend, Jyralt.

The man nodded in greeting to him, "It is an urgent matter, milord. Your presence is needed in the dungeons."

Olan's eyes went wide in sudden understanding. He followed after Jyralt, leaving Orinas with his shy nurse, despite the boy's protests and promised to return. The two swept through the castle down the lower levels and into the dungeons, two guards silently joining the two at their sides.

Fiddling with a ring of keys, Jyralt counted large iron doors until he made it to the one he'd been searching for. He unlocked the door, its old lock clanging throughout the dungeons.

"A companion of the heretic, Ramza," Jyralt announced.

"Never call him so in my presence again," Olan hissed in his friend's ear and more loudly added to the guards flanking their sides, "Leave us and wait at the end of the corridor." Pulling the door shut behind him, after Jyralt entered, he took a chair opposite of the man chained against the wall.

"Traitor! Bastard!" The man shouted upon seeing Olan, kicking out at air, "Nanten dog!"

Jyralt struck the man.

"Stay your hand," Olan ordered.

"But, Olan," Jyralt began, forgetting himself. The look in Olan's eyes effectively silenced him.

Free to converse at last, Olan began, "I remember you…from Goland."

"And I, you, traitor," the man accused.

"Please, what is your name?" Olan pleaded. He knew the man had no reason to trust him or anyone that had borne Nanten's standard. It was Delita after all who'd so graciously sent Ramza and his men to their death, and this man probably placed him into the same category with that cursed manipulator.

"I will not speak with-" the man had started, but then relented, "What matter is it to I. You will only execute me anyway. I am Marty."

Olan retorted, "Surely there is more to your name than that."

"Fine, my full name is Martin d'Erstile," Marty replied, looking away. Olan had heard that name before; this man was no simple mercenary. The d'Erstile family was an old landowning noble family native to Gallione near Igros.

"Tell me, Ser d'Erstile, were you a cadet for the Hokuten knights at one point?" Olan quizzed, trying to figure out the man's origins.

"What does it matter to you?" Marty asked, but the answer he gave in his eyes was plainly yes. Olan examined the man, he'd obviously begun his training as a knight but his clothes reflected that of a wandering monk. Such ascetics had been rare in Northern Ivalice. He must have completed his military education in the South probably near Warjilas.

"These chains do not suit you, Ser," Olan began, but Marty quickly cut him off.

"You cannot buy me, dog," the monk's eyes were afire.

"You will not speak to his lordship that way, heretic," Jyralt interjected silent up until that point. His friend's shoulders were stiff almost as if he were ready to leap onto the man.

"Heretic," Marty yelled, "Me, a heretic? You lot are the heretics, worshipping demons that would sooner kill you than look at you."

"Jyralt, that is enough," Olan shouted. He'd almost had a civil conversation with the man until his friend interrupted. "Leave us," he pointed to the door, "We will have words later," he assured the man. Jyralt left swiftly, his jaw tight. Olan knew his advisor had meant no harm, but this was critical. Olan had been waiting for an opportunity like this since seeing both Ramza and Alma ride by their graves, and then something Marty said struck him. _Demons_…he sounded like Agrias for a moment, but he was clearly sane.

"Demons, Ser?" Olan looked at Marty, quirking a quizzical brow.

"Marty," the monk corrected, "I am free of title and state. Yes, demons. I've seen things no mortal mind will ever be able to grasp. You are aware that those Zodiac stones were for far more than shining prettily."

Olan's gaze sharpened; he hadn't thought about the stones for ages. He'd been embroiled deep in the Lion War, caring little for the affairs of the Church.

"Go on," Olan murmured, coaxing Marty into speaking further. This man could become very useful to him in the near future, if he played the game correctly. He'd needed an ally for a long time that he could confide in.

* * *

Ovelia took furtive steps in Ivalice, atop Rose Red's back. She'd led the trio for the last leg of the journey. Snow long behind them in Ordalia, Ivalice lay exactly as Ovelia remembered it, the North a land of high pines, clear lakes, and pristinely blue skies. The wind of late summer warmed her face, and she inhaled sharply. To her, there was no air like the air of Ivalice. She wiped furtively at the corners of her eyes, tears already forming. She'd missed home greatly. Looking over at the other two, a similar mood had swept over them.

Then, she quashed the feelings and pulled her hood low over her face. The time for caution was greater than ever. Ramza reassumed the lead, hiding his face as well; Alma did likewise. Anyone that would have happened to have noticed the travelers would have seen three hooded riders taking the road to Zeltennia Castle.

The sun high at noon, the trio approached the region's largest trade city, Zarghidas. Ovelia's hands gripped at Rose Red's reins unsteadily, the erratic racing of her heart flooding her ears as she and her companions strolled along the main road thick with business. She was amongst her people once more. The smell of Ivalicean delicacies assaulted her nostrils, beckoning her to stray from her course into one of many of the little bakeries or markets off to the side. She fought to compose herself but could hardly rein in the desire to look around widely at the city. Merchants flocked along the main road: some were on foot, others rode like she, or led caravans. There were children as well, so many children…singing local songs weaving between the legs of adults running errands as they ran and played.

A sudden flash of white with an all too familiar red standard sobered Ovelia- Nanten knights. The knights silently surveyed the business of the day in tucked away corridors and patrolled openly through the throngs of people every so often as Ovelia and the others made their way through the city. She straightened upon her chocobo, her posture distinctly prideful yet detracting from the knights' attention. Looking ahead, Ovelia caught Ramza's signal to stop. Why of all places would he want to stop here, Ovelia pondered, skepticism staining her thoughts.

The woman dismounted and tethered her chocobo along with Ramza and Alma to a small wooden wall with other tawny colored steeds before a small squat building. Ovelia wrinkled her nose following Ramza inside; a tavern in this _city_ was a hotbed for rumors. Zeltennians living in Zarghidas were prone to dramatics, and it wouldn't do at all for there to be yet another rumor of three cloaked strangers prowling the landscape. The memory of Caius' partial betrayal was still fresh in her mind.

The smell of clove pipe smoke and ale enveloped her, and Ovelia's eyes adjusted quickly to the low light of the tavern. Ramza selected a table towards the back of the end for them to sit at. Alma sat silently without complaint. The girl's brows were slightly furrowed as if she were troubled by something. Ovelia couldn't fault the girl for her sentiments; she couldn't grasp why Ramza had them stop here either. With a sweeping motion of his arm, Ramza bade Ovelia to sit. She dropped to the seat without a sound, the hard wood of the stool quite uncomfortable against her back, already sore from a full day of riding.

"Now what?" Ovelia questioned.

"We listen," Ramza murmured, turning away from the blonde watching the rest of the room from his chair. Though his words were cryptic, Ovelia did find sense in them. Ramza obviously wanted more information before he led them blindly into Zeltennia, and she was inclined to agree with him. Soft wood under pliable gloved fingers, she drummed a rhythmic beat against the table. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and she'd still heard nothing of use. Ovelia couldn't care less about a certain lady's romantic escapades at court or of some lord's illegitimately fathered child. None of that information was of any use to her.

She settled for watching the steady stream of wax drip from a distant candle on the far corner of the tavern's bar counter, and then her gaze shifted to the local merchants, chemists, traders and other laborers of the bourgeoisie seated at the bar drinking out the day's earnings in overpriced ale. Then, her eyes shifted to the more immediate- Ramza's hooded profile. Her breath caught for a moment. She'd seen him from out of the corner of his eye for perhaps just a moment watching her and then his eyes went back to the main floor. Her cheeks flushed, and she berated herself for straying from the task at hand for even a moment.

Alma suddenly cleared her throat, and Ovelia nearly jumped out of her skin. She'd forgotten almost entirely the girl at her side.

"I think I shall get something to drink for the three of us," her airy voice murmured and added more softly, "It would suspicious for us to just merely sit here."

Ramza nodded, and Ovelia rose giving Alma room to stalk off to the bar. She sat once more, wishing it was she that could have gone to order the wine, but it was decided still in the mountains of Ordalia that Alma would handle all negotiations and orders once they'd made it into Ivalice. She hadn't been country's monarch at one time nor had she had her face posted on every tavern and church wall for the crime of heresy either. Ovelia sighed inaudibly, the wall of tension that between Ramza and she was thick. He'd scarcely spoken to her after the incident with the panther.

_"Anything for you approval,"_ the phrase Ovelia had spoken on the snowy mountain pass still echoed off of the confines of her mind, and she was certain off of his as well. What had she been thinking when she said that? She was on a mission; there was nothing more important than restoring order to Ivalice's crown. She didn't have the luxury of allowing herself to behave like some lovesick girl. Ovelia travelled down that road once before, and all it had won her was a loveless marriage and an even weaker Ivalice.

Ramza broke her interior argument, "Your armor needed to be replaced."

Ovelia jerked her head in his direction away from where Alma was still at the counter, waiting on their order. He'd spoken without even looking at her. Ovelia's featured crumpled into a frown, and she quickly wiped her face clean into a stoic mask.

"Yes," she nodded, running her hand against the bandaged tear in the fabric at her thigh.

"I know of a good armory a small ways down the road. We'll go there after we learn what we need to know here. I think something sturdier and enchanted is in order," Ramza replied.

"Voila," Alma returned and placed a small tray on the table laden with breads, cheeses, meat, and the three goblets- two of milk and one of wine that she'd initially set out for.

"What's all this?" Ramza began, gesturing to the food.

Alma wagged her finger, stifling his protest, "We haven't eaten since early this morn, Brother."

Evenly distributing the food amongst them, Ovelia ate and listened to the surrounding conversations, picking up more snatches of gossip of the royal court and then simpler more honest things- events of the day ranging from work to the more intimate and personal affairs of the home. The door creaked opened and in strode three knights; the atmosphere of the tavern shifted entirely. All polite conversation died down, and Ovelia strained to see the knights who'd entered the low room. Golden armor shrouded by crimson robes, and rings encrusted with precious gems kissing their fingers, the three were not ordinary knights, and Ovelia felt a sudden pang of recognition, thinking that she should have known their names but could not recall them. She may have even meant them once or twice, and then it all unfurled in her mind.

"The Crimson Three," Ovelia whispered lowly so that only Alma and Ramza could hear her. All three native to Limberry, the knights swore allegiance to the Ovelia as their monarch and served dutifully in the last leg of the Lion War. Like Delita, the three knights soared through the ranks and grew in power, but what Ovelia pondered in the immediacy of the situation was what brought them here to such a small tavern. The leader of the group, a tall graying brunette with sharply defined features, who Ovelia remembered as Pilatus stalked forward to the bar counter and passed something off to the barkeeper.

"A parchment of some sort?" Alma wondered aloud, keeping her voice low.

Then, Pilatus proclaimed loudly, clasping his hand against his heart in a grave manner, "Paste this to the walls, an official proclamation of his lordship, Regent Olan Durai to the King of all of Ivalice, Orinas I," and with a great flourish of his robes Pilatus, flanked by the other two knights left the tavern. The room lay silent for a few moments, and the usual atmosphere resumed.

"Very curious," Ramza muttered, and he signaled for Alma to go amongst the gathering crowd in front of the wall where the barkeeper was busy at pasting the document.

* * *

Far past the North Ice Sea, further than the mountainous Ordalia, through ruined empires and lands overrun by barbarian hordes lies the snowy, dark kingdom of Valendia, the northernmost kingdom in the world. More three decades ago when Ivalice was well embroiled in the Fifty Year's War, a prince, not yet king though it was rumored that he soon may be, road up to the gates of Valnain, the seat of Valendia's power. A full regiment of knights and mages flanked him, and his muscles were stiff with his duty and his honor to strike an alliance with this distant country for the sake of his. Denamunda II wiped snow from his eyes, his hands heavy with cold and his thoughts heavier. The journey had not been kind to the man, and it had taken all of his wits to make it unseen through the North Ice Sea by boat and to ghost by Ordalia's border, and he would not leave this land empty-handed.

His cape ragged, his breath bursting out in short pants that crystallized in air, Denamunda dismounted and threw up his hand to halt his men. He took a long, languid stride to the palace doors, and the knights of Valendia dare not touch him awed by the man's boldness. The great doors creaked open ever so slightly giving passage to gaunt, ancient advisor garbed in black furs.

"What business have you here, Denamunda II son of Denamunda I? We have no want of your war. Return to Ivalice," the advisor's voice was a high, shrill whine that amused and emboldened the prince rather than to deter him.

He pushed past the advisor, and the sharply pointed spears of knights fell to block his entry into the castle, the men seemingly having gotten over their initial awe, and Denamunda laughed, a throaty deep sound of a man drunk on his own sense of power.

"Listen," the prince began silkily leering down at the advisor, "What I have to offer to your kingdom, should you only aid mine, will be great- the splendors of Ordalia, the beginning of a new empire, a new age. The world could be ours. Think of it- Kerwon to the far south, that unconquerable land too could be ours."

"Our king isn't nearly as bloodthirsty as your father," the other man's shrill voice rang, accusatory, "Nor is he a wolf like you."

Denamunda grinned, his teeth gaped like that of a predator in a savage smile, "A wolf am I?"

"Bar me from these doors, and I shall lead my men south into old Nabradia and Dalmasca, perhaps the barbarian hordes that dwell there would be more interested in my offer," and then the prince's tone grew coy, "But, I fear that it may bring about the damnation of both Valendia and Ordalia."

"Damn you," the other man spat, knowing all too well what the other man threatened.

Denamunda's eyes narrowed, "Careful, you do speak to a prince."

The advisor wrung his skeletal hands, momentarily indecisive, and then his shoulders slumped, "Follow me."

The march to the King's chamber through the castle's high, dark corridor was a solemn, slow one, and Denamunda's hands were clasped behind his back and his chest puffed with pride. He'd have to start walking the walk of a king, and he almost grinned once more, thinking after all his own father was almost dead, a victim of the plague, but his father wouldn't have contracted the disease at all if it were not for a few special ingenuities on his part. He could taste victory on his tongue; his empire would be far greater than even the great Archades of old myths.

A grayed man, face mangled by age and a young brunette were the sights that greeted Denamunda in a small candlelit study. The man scowled at the prince, and Denamunda bowed low to the ground in mock respect. The woman still more girl than woman giggled, the innocence of her youth tempering her voice.

_She is pretty_, Denamunda thought, _she is pretty and my own wife is far away in Ivalice._ He faintly recognized her as the girl matching a portrait to a book of Valendian royalty. So this was the youngest princess of the kingdom…he appraised her quickly and she blushed under his examination. She would be his key to Valendia, all her beauty and feminine weakness would be his to control. Soft blue eyes met his striking brown, and she turned away. The prince was well aware of his own handsome features, and he smirked, turning back to the aged king who scowled at the prince. In the end, this would be too easy.

* * *

Clemence remembered his father as only as a painting, having saw the actual man once or twice in a crowded room at a distance, and he'd hid behind his mother's dress as she stood in awe of the man who was more a cruelly intelligent beast in his mannerisms than a man. His eyes could burn the portrait painted on porcelain that was held tightly in his palm as he rode in his carriage to Igros. Tall, broad shoulders, golden of hair, muscular of frame, all accentuated by striking amber colored eyes that conveyed a gleam of ambition, Clemence hated, feared, and admired the portrait of the man that was his father.

He, Clemence, of course had taken after his mother. His frame lithe, his hair limp and dark, he was deemed by his father at birth as weak and unworthy and denied the rights he should have held as a prince of Ivalice and as a son to its king. _Bastard_, many called him, _bastard_…as if the boy had never possessed a name in his youth. _Bastard_, he heard behind his back from society's undesirables who, themselves, were damned more than he. After his uncle, now king, sent he and his mother to live in Lea Monde after his grandfather's passing, _bastard _defined his existence.

_Bastard_, the indelible stain upon Clemence's soul…finally wiped clean.

Would Denamunda be pleased that his son, his bastard son had risen above the weak-willed Omdoria to build an empire? Clemence taught himself from youth that he couldn't care less about the dead king's opinion of him; his father hadn't cared about him. He did nothing for the man's otherworldly approval. The road to Igros was long and misty this day, and Clemence took turns looking beyond the window of his carriage and back at his father's portrait. Denamunda had been a giant of a man with large hands made only to wield the blade; Clemence's own fingers were thin and pliant more suited to great gestures during speeches meant to inspire the public. He smiled to himself. _One needn't be forceful to rule the world. _

The carriage slowed to a halt before a small manor of indisputable charm. One of his footmen opened the carriage door and led Clemence to the house's main gate. Green limestone made up the manor and ivy crawled up its walls. Clemence found such a rustic sight pleasing, certain that this manor would have been beautiful on a sunnier day. His footman knocked at the door, and Clemence heard a great clamor of noise: pots, pans, and running feet behind it.

A young maid no older than thirteen greeted them. She smoothed a dirty cap down over her auburn hair and gave Clemence a shy smile, admiration shining in her eyes. Clemence returned the gesture and kneeled to the girl's height, murmuring, "I've an audience with the lord of this manor."

The maid flushed, "Right this way, milord."

Clemence followed the little maid who teetered in her step. They passed many a servant who all seemingly stopped in their business to glimpse at him. He knew what they were thinking. _This is Clemence, our liberator- our champion,_ and it made his heart glad.

He approached a tucked away room towards the back of the manor, and his guide, the maid knocked softly at the door.

"Yes," rang the harsh bellow of a man clearly used to ordering and receiving answers promptly.

The maid squeaked, "His lordship, Clemence, is here to speak with you, milord." The girl chanced another small look into the Valendian prince's face, and he smiled. The melodious clanking of locks being undone echoed in Clemence's ear, and he was greeted by a stout man, aged no more than sixty dressed in a velvety blue robe.

The maid curtsied and began to make off quickly about her own business, but Clemence caught her by the wrist.

Clemence looked down to her, "Thank you, Miss…"

The girl flushed again and readily supplied, "Emily."

"Thank you, Miss Emily," Clemence corrected, shook the girl's little hand, and released her.

The lord of the manor shook his head as the little maid scampered off, now giddy, looking down at her hand. He looked towards the Valendian prince, "It's true what they say about you, isn't it?"

Clemence flashed him a falsely puzzled look, knowing all too well what the man was going on about.

"That," the other man trailed off for a moment, searching for how he wanted to phrase his statement, "You treat your servants as friends," the lord supplied.

Clemence smiled knowingly but didn't answer and followed the lord into his study. A lord such as he wouldn't understand. Clemence had tasted the ostracism of his fellow noble class in his lifetime, and he learned quickly that to win the world, one would have to win the downtrodden. He'd known what it felt like to be seen and not heard, and though the peasantry of Ivalice was more of a stepping stone to him than anything else, he could empathize with them. Like little Emily, he too had been eager for any recognition at all from his betters in his youth.

The room was small and cramped, a lone candle lighting the whole room, and a large oak desk devoured it, sitting proudly in the center like a great wooden cat. The lord took his seat behind the desk in a plush armchair, and Clemence took his before it, his face momentarily haunted recalling a similar study in the Imperial Castle in Valnain.

"So, Lord d'Erstile," Clemence began, "I understand that your family is the most powerful in all of Gallione."

The lord's chest momentarily swelled in pride, "If you aim to flatter, Prince, then you have succeeded, but I suppose that such a claim is true considering the power vacuum in our little corner of Ivalice."

"Yes," Clemence's thoughts ghosted backwards to the Lion War and of the demise of the Larg and Beoulve families, "But, it must be such a disgrace that your family is ignored so by the ruling family in Zeltennia."

Lord d'Erstile scowled, "Yes…yes, it is a disgrace, my boy. It is what most of the noble families of Gallione feel. They even have gone and moved the damn throne to Zeltennia. Was Lesalia not good enough for them? It has been that way hundreds of years, dating back to the damn founding of the kingdom."

"Yes, I know," Clemence crooned and smirked now no longer paying attention to the lord and his complaints. He'd found a weak point in this man, and he'd gladly exploit it.

* * *

The bright light of the moon above Zeltennia bathed his face as Denamunda stood at window. For what seem to be the first time his life, he was tired. He'd retreated to the ancestral home of his cousins, the Goltana family, for a few weeks before he rode to rejoin his armies at the frontlines in Ordalia, but even this short stay fatigued him. The war between Ordalia and Ivalice raged on and on, and Valendia refused his call for aid, but he hadn't left empty-handed. He turned and watched the dark haired woman's sleeping form. She'd secreted herself away with him across the sea, and he'd crooned such sweet words into her ear, but she'd overstayed her welcome and exceeded her usefulness pressing upon him insane demands. Leave his wife? Never. No, he didn't love her, but with her dowry came five thousand fighting men from the plains of Fovoham and his army needed all the aid it could get.

His shoulders were heavy with the weight of being king. Five long years had passed and with his father dead and the war not going as he planned, he'd have to cut loose ties. This mistress was demanding and his patience was short. There were even prettier woman, who'd be easier to maintain and less dangerous to have, but the scent of roses, her scent, would always linger in his nose. He'd miss her, but in the end she was expendable. He could be callous…no he was callous, but something in Denamunda didn't want to crush the woman's gentle spirit so he would tell her a half lie.

"Ovelia," Denamunda whispered, walking to stand over the woman. She stretched and yawned, light eyes blinking against the bright moonlight of the night.

"Yes, my love," comes her sleepy lovesick reply, her eyes shine in admiration for him.

And, Denamunda falters, an almost unperceivable gesture on his part, then speaks, "I think it would be best for you to return to Valendia. To the safety of Valnain."

The princess frowns almost instantly, and then she speaks, "I am with child. How could I make the journey? I don't want to be parted from your side, milord."

"Ovelia," Denamunda stresses her name, "I am to ride in three weeks time to rejoin my men. I have many enemies in Ivalice," and his eyes soften and his tone grows falsely sweet, "How can I make you understand? There are many men who hate me, and I could never make war against the enemy if I thought that you," he places a hand on her slightly swelled stomach, "And our child were in danger here."

Ovelia is moved by what she mistakes for his sincerity, and Denamunda commends himself on such a fantastic performance. She whispers, solemnly, hers eyes burning with love, "I understand, milord. I understand. Now, come to bed."

Denamunda smirks and claims his place at her side. _She is pretty, and she will be an even prettier memory._ _Should I ever have a daughter, I think I shall name her Ovelia_, then Denamunda allows sleep to claim him.

* * *

Ovelia, Ramza, and Alma were well on their way to Zeltennia now, their thoughts heavy, and all of them silent. Ovelia could scarcely fathom the gravity of what the proclamation said. The Nanten knights were paying well for information concerning the ransacking of Orbonne Monastery. The building had been abandoned since the end of the war. What knave ransack the building and for what?

Ramza and Alma exchange nervous looks frequently, and Ovelia wishes they'd share with her their thoughts. Ovelia clings to Rose Red, and the beast falls slightly behind the brother and sister. She allows them to ride ahead, and she is troubled by her own thoughts. They are still more than three days away, and she cannot even fathom how they will get Olan's attention without drawing the attention of others. She is plagued by the continuing dreams of Agrias, and of her own growing feelings for Ramza- a blossoming obsession that will drive her mad too like the woman haunting her dreams.

The blonde wills her thoughts to go blank and savors the beauty of late summer in Zeltennia. It is a warm day, and the aromatic scent of blossoms invades her senses. _Take bliss in ignorance, take bliss the calm before the storm_, Ovelia coaches herself. These next three days of silence, ignorance, and peace will be the last, she thinks ominously.


	6. Powder Keg

Alis Volat Propiis

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_She Flies With Her Own Wings_

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Disclaimer: I am making no profit whatsoever from this story.

A/N: I realized that I had anonymous reviews disabled and finally saw to fixing that. Things in this chapter are starting to heat up, and a few new characters introduce themselves to the story in this chapter.

* * *

Chapter 6: Powder Keg

_There is a woman's corpse floating down the river betwixt Lesalia and Bethla Garrison._

Her body has only been there for perhaps a day, and it wasn't even the water that killed her; the singular thin slash across her neck was the blow that sent her to her grave. Her red lips are pursed, permanently frozen in a tight line, and if anyone passing by were to stop and examine her features, they'd first note that she was very beautiful. Her face was the face of the woman set into very early middle age, her beautiful features kept youthful by a life of luxury. Then, upon a closer inspection her face wouldn't appear too dissimilar to that of the slain Prince Larg. Her hair yellow, her eyes white, and her mouth tight, she seems more disgusted than frightened in her eternal death mask.

Hands folded upon her chest with great care, she is garbed in a simple white frock. How dissimilar to what this woman was used to in life! She had the looks of a woman used to the absolute best. What a disgrace to be garbed in something so dissimilar to finest silks from the South and the best gems mined from Goland!

_There is a woman's corpse floating down the river betwixt Lesalia and Bethla Garrison._

Who she _was_ is insignificant to what she _is_. She _was_ Ruvelia, and she _was_ also the deposed queen imprisoned in her summer palace in Lesalia for plotting to kill the one time princess and now dead queen, Ovelia. Neither of those facts are significant now, she, Ruvelia, is a murdered…no a _martyred_ monarch and when her body is discovered, a large faction of the neglected noble families in Gallione and Fovoham will howl for blood.

_There is a woman's corpse floating down the river betwixt Lesalia and Bethla Garrison, and it washes onto shore not too far from a company of knights riding from Araguay Woods._

* * *

Clemence wiped his mouth daintily after breakfasting with Lord and Lady d'Erstile, when suddenly a courier burst through the balcony door panting, his face drawn tight as he half kneeled, fighting to catch his breath.

Lord d'Erstile rose at once, "What's the meaning of this?"

"M-m-milord," the courier panted.

"Gather your breath, my boy," Lord d'Erstile retorted and bade one of his servants with a signal of his hand to pour the man a glass of chilled juice from the breakfast table. A little maid went scurrying over to the man, a glass in hand and handed it off to him. His breath easing, the courier took a long drink from the glass and placed it on the table.

"My master, Lord Oriel, bade all of his fastest couriers to deliver this message to all of Gallione, Fovoham, and Lesalia. It was told to me by another courier who was told by yet another very early this morn, and now I relay it you, milord: _Prepare thy houses for war. Our vengeance shall not be sated until those responsible for Queen Ruvelia's death are likewise dead," _The courier teetered in his step under Lord d'Erstile's incredulous gaze.

"Murdered…the queen?" He asks himself more than the courier. Lord d'Erstile had been one of the queen's staunchest supporters, most of the noble houses of Gallione were.

"Ay, milord. It is as you said," the courier replies looking away.

Now it is Clemence who speaks, "And, how was she found, courier?"

"Upon her back floating down the river betwixt Lesalia and Bethla Garrison, her throat slit," the courier now looks down to his toes and shifts unsteadily, "Milord, if I could speak."

"Speak," Lord d'Erstile's face is contorted in fury, fury at Ruvelia's murderers.

The courier murmurs, hesitantly, "I've many houses still to visit to deliver this news. Have you an addendum to this message?"

"Yes, tell them this," the lord bellows, his whole house reverberating with his voice, "This is what happens when our nation falls into the hands of Nanten dogs. I am surprised the prince isn't dead yet, but surely he is poisoned against us. It's that damned Olan. I know it. He's trying to do away with the old noble order in Gallione and Fovoham. It's he who is our enemy, and what does the prince matter to us now when the mother is dead."

"Well said," Clemence chimes, seeing this as his opportunity, "Ovelia murdered, and now Ruvelia as well? The prince, Orinas, is a lost cause to us. As an outside eye, I see keenly what's going on here. This Olan Durai is trying to undermine your power," Clemence rises and throws up his arms, the melodious tenor of his voice carrying throughout the house, "He wants to do away with all of you, and it would be advantageous of you to do away with him before he does so with you."

"You have a way with words, boy," Lord d'Erstile suddenly breaks in and examines the man before him. His frame is lithe, but the lord recognizes a certain fire burning in the boy that he has seen before, "You are Denamunda's boy, are you not?"

Clemence nods, almost eagerly, for the slightest recognition of that fact, "I am, I am," he assures Lord d'Erstile. It is a fact they both know, but Clemence is particularly pleased because he knows exactly what the elder man is weighing behind his eyes.

"Then it is settled. Courier," Lord d'Erstile turns back to the man who has been standing silent in awe of Clemence, "In addition to your message, tell the people of Gallione to salute this fine man as their king. He joins people together in unity, placates the peasantry, and he would be Ruvelia's choice of a monarch rather than that weakling she sired that lives in Zeltennia. Tell them that Lord d'Erstile says this."

* * *

Martin d'Erstile sat upon a large stone in the gardens outside of Zeltennia Castle, his legs crossed, his eyes closed in meditation, and his thoughts unfettered by outside disturbances. Focusing himself entirely on exhaling and inhaling, he had sat like this since early morning for what he had seen the night before he hadn't been at all prepared to grapple with. A mad Agrias? The very thought was a cruel, unfunny joke, but yet it was true. The song of the mad knight taunted him in his mind.

"_Rob me of sight, steal my senses, lose my sword. Fear her and exalt her, the bloody Angel!"_

Who could be prepared for something so impossible? He'd never known true fear not even when he'd faced the Bloody Angel in all of her infamy until he'd glimpsed into Agrias' aged, hollow eyes. The madness in them was something he couldn't cure despite Olan's optimism, and what was worse was he wasn't sure if he wanted to cure her. Standing in the same room with the woman made his skin crawl, and Martin just wanted to run for the nearest ship to Valendia when he first saw her. He hadn't wanted any of this: Olan's problems with Clemence, the growing unrest of Ivalice's populace, and certainly did not want to share the burden of Agrias' madness. It was easier to deny its existence, easier to believe that she'd fallen in battle after the cataclysm of Ajora's explosive death rather than to see her mad, but he couldn't…no he wouldn't abandon Ivalice after all he'd been through, and there it was.

Martin d'Erstile opened his eyes, impenetrable blue gazing into a clear sky. He'd abandoned the d'Erstile name to become Marty and a promising future amongst the Hokuten Order for something much more meaningful. Ramza wasn't the only one who ran, horrified and disgusted with the noble class after the tragedy at Fort Zeakden. Teta's crumpled form flashed quickly in his mind followed by an explosion that lit the night like day, and he'd fled and hadn't stopped running until he resumed training in Warjilas far to the South. However, his training as a monk was of a different sort than the tutelage of knighthood. He learned to use his body as a weapon and trained his heart as a pool to key in on the pain of others, and it was this new compassion that kept him here even though he was still very distrustful of Olan.

Marty rose slowly from the stone, his mind calmed and strode through the high rose bushes into the castle's back corridor, but then a sudden scurrying caught his attention, a lone ragged run set apart from the daily comings and goings of court life. Someone was running to Olan's chamber as if his life depended on it. Marty raced up the stairs towards the source of the noise, and caught sight of a red garbed courier practically breaking down the door. He shuffled in silently behind the man, and Olan gazed up aghast at the courier, halfway between reading some important personage's letter.

"Yes?" Olan inquired quirking a brow. Marty took his place behind Olan's back at his left side, particularly eager to hear the courier's message as well; he ignored the glare from Olan's advisor Jyralt.

"Milord," the courier began panting, "I've tragic news."

"And, what of it?" Olan's tone grew sharp, "Straight to the point, no banter."

"Her former majesty, Ruvelia has been discovered by Hokuten knights…murdered," the mood that swept over the room was like a fast moving rain on the plains, thunderous and heavy.

"She has been what?" Jyralt interjected, his eyes dark with skepticism.

"Murdered, floating down the river betwixt Lesalia and Bethla Garrison. Her throat was slit, milord," the courier stammered.

"But, that's impossible. Her chambers were guarded by our knights. Our knights!" Jyralt shouted.

"No," Olan began, "In the winter of this year, we turned her protection over to a neutral source, the Touten knights. It was done to appease the Hokuten Order and the noble families of Gallione, Fovoham, and western Lesalia, but," Olan's voice faltered for a moment, "I fear they may blame us for this still."

Marty listened to this exchange with rapt attention. So the peace that existed between the Hokuten and Nanten was only tremulous at best, but there was one thing certain in this ordeal. Ruvelia's death was no accident, but then he considered what Olan had said.

"The Touten knights," Marty murmurs aloud, "I thought that order had been disbanded after Gafgarion had been ousted as its commander."

"No," Olan shakes his head, momentarily distracted from his worries, and then he laughs though his tone is hollow, "In Delita's three year stint as king, he sought to reform the old orders. He'd employed a lord from Fovoham to reform the knights. God what was his name, Wren Kalona. Those of the west accepted him as one of their own because he was from Fovoham, but he was only ever neutral. I fear that he may have something to do with Ruvelia's death, though I hope that it is not the case…I pray it not be."

"Courier, leave us. Deliver your message with your swiftest to the rest of our lands, Zeltennia, Lionel, and Limberry," Jyralt orders in the place of the Regent.

The courier leaves, quickly, and the room lays silent for a moment.

"Thank you, Jyralt," Olan thanks the man at his right. He doesn't look up and only holds his head in his hands, "I shall have to call a conference with my generals. This will mean war, you know. Three years of peace? Was that all we could give this Ivalice?"

"If I could speak?" Marty asks.

"Speak your thoughts, friend," Olan replies, his tone thick with sorrow.

"Launch a public investigation into the matter. That should sate the Hokuten Order for the time being," the monk suggests. He is unused to such politically heavy matters, and his mind is reeling. Ramza was always good at this, knowing what to do next, but if Ramza saw Ivalice now as she was, his heart would break.

* * *

Ovelia lies upon her bedroll against Zeltennia's rolling grassy hills in the heat of the midday sun. There are still two days yet to travel to reach the castle town, and neither Ramza, Alma, nor she have come up with a decent plan on how to meet with Olan's attention. The suggestion came up that they could feign having knowledge about the incident at Orbonne Monastery, but the idea was dismissed as quickly as it arose. They'd have to go through a series of guards, sharp interrogations, and there would be far too many prying eyes.

Those thoughts however have no easy answers. Her limbs ache and she is fatigued with the extended bout between her and Ramza earlier in the day. She'd been angry during this practice session, angry at herself and at him, and had charged him with all the ferociousness of a real assault. She wanted to blame this on the crimson dagger at her hip, but it was her own anger, her own fault, and by the end of the match, Ramza was angry too.

_"If you cannot keep your emotions in check, perhaps the blade is not for you," Ramza spat coldly, and this was the first time she'd seen him so, and it stung. She threw down the blade and pled for his forgiveness, but he'd turned away from her, "Alma, we shall make camp here for the next few hours, and then he stalked off in the wilderness. _

Ovelia rolled over, hot tears spilling from her eyes, cascading down her cheeks. She was stupid and cowardly. She'd rather lash out against her own friends rather than confront her fears, and she was so confused and lost at the same time. Now that she was so near Zeltennia, she had absolutely no idea what to do. She simply could not enter the castle gates and demand her crown. She was dead, buried alongside Delita and… Her thoughts trailed off. She refused to think of that tomb.

_Delita looked over to Ovelia, "There's no use crying or clinging to it. What's dead is dead, and it should be buried."_

_"You don't understand," she screamed, "He's not a thing that you can just cast away and pretend never existed! He was alive. He had a name. Use it!"_

_Then, Delita spoke slowly as if he were talking to a child, "Ovelia, come out of that room," he strode over to her side and touched her shoulder lightly. She recoiled as if burned, disgusted by his touch. His eyes dark with anger, he snarled, pushing her away "Fine, stay here, behave like a child. That thing is dead and will be buried by the end of this day even if I have to rip it from your arms."_

Ovelia shuddered at the memory, and her small frame was racked with sobs. Alma, having seen what transpired between Ramza and her, hadn't spoken to her since they'd made camp. The woman didn't behave out of spite but probably preferred to keep out of her brother's and Ovelia's quarrel. Exhaling shakily, Ovelia wiped her eyes in time enough to see Ramza's form rise over the hill. Alma had set camp on the other side, and Ovelia took it upon herself to isolate herself from the others. For a moment, she thought they would have abandoned her, but that _would _be foolish. She knew Ramza wouldn't desert her over a small fight. Well, she prayed he wouldn't, but he had far more merit to his character than that, and she felt ashamed even thinking for a minute that he'd do something so roguish.

Ovelia pulls herself in a sitting position, hugging her knees to her chest at Ramza's approach, and he drops down to her side.

"I apologize," he mumbles looking away.

Ovelia corrects him, "It was my fault. I should be the one to apologize."

"No, I was the one to anger you. I could see it in your eyes. It was wrong to badger you into sparring today," his hand finds hers, and he gives it a squeeze, "The dagger suits you. You wield it well. You're much faster than you were against the panther in the mountains," she is looking at him now, and he is staring back, "You've been crying," he accuses eyeing her red, puffy eyes.

"I haven't," Ovelia lies and feels even guiltier that Ramza thought _he_ had angered her.

Ramza chuckles, "So stubborn," he jokingly chides and then his tone grows serious once more, lowly he adds, "We're too much alike, your majesty."

Ovelia is taken aback. He hasn't addressed her by her courtly titles since she entered first rode with him into Ordalia a month ago. Then, she notices his closeness, and his breath warms her face. Not an unpleasant scent something vaguely like mint, and then her lips are upon his. Their kiss is feather light. Her teeth tug at his lower lip almost playfully, and she leans into his touch, then she suddenly recoils.

"Ramza, I-I'm sorry," she stammers. _But he kissed back, _her mind sings, but the expression he wears on his face is confused, horrified, and he lets go of her hand.

"I," he begins, "We can't."

"Agrias," Ovelia whispers her eyes far off, looking towards where Zeltennia Castle will be after another two days of travel. The wind begins to pick up, and the midday heat cools. A whistling through the grassy knolls, and he's gone distant again.

"I'm sorry," Ramza rises abruptly, wiping grass from his knees. Then he reassumes the role of commander and tactician, "Be ready to ride in thirty minutes time, Ovelia."

"Ay," Ovelia grunts noncommittal. She readies her pack, and watches his retreating form over the hill to his sister's side, and she hates herself for this. She damns this infatuation; she doesn't love him. She's not even sure she is able to love- to give up that much of herself and place it in someone else's hands after being hurt so by Delita. Up comes the shell, and Ovelia retreats into the corner of her mind. The persona of the warrior queen, blade at her hip, whistles for her chocobo, and Rose Red gallops over the hill.

* * *

From his guest lodgings in Lord d'Erstile's manor, Clemence sat in a small salon taking tea alone. At his request, the serving attendants the lord bade service him were given a short reprieve to do whatever they wished. It wasn't out of any consideration on his part, but the Valendian prince needed time to himself, time to think without being stared at by cow-eyed peasants. The admiration Ivalice's lowest class had for his person could be at times very grating. A knock at the door jarred him from his thoughts.

"Enter," Clemence called, exasperated.

The door creaked open slowly, and there stood little Emily. Her clothes this time had been scrubbed to a pristine perfection.

"Ser," the girl curtsied, "Beg your pardon, milord, but there is a certain lady here to see you."

Then a light went off in Clemence's head. Yes he had been expecting her for some time, "Send her in then. Thank you, Emily," Clemence replied, and the girl quickly scurried off. An armor clad woman strode in the salon and sat on the couch across from Clemence.

"I've been expecting you for quite awhile, Amanda. I was almost worried that you'd spoil my careful timing," Clemence chided.

Amanda shrugged and hung her arms against the back of the chair and threw her legs upon the table between Clemence and herself. His features are colored with a nobleman's polite disdain, and he watches flecks of mud and goodness knows what else clinging to her boots drift onto the table's polished surface. _So very uncouth_, Clemence's thought at the back of his mind. The woman was a harsh contrast to the rest of the room. The dirt caked silver of her armor, jagged broken nails, raven hair butchered to a short tuft above her ears, and eyes colored like fire- she stuck out completely against the salon's soft glittering opulence. Clemence snorted, but Amanda was anything but soft and glittering.

"So, my killer," Clemence purred, "You and your order have done well."

Amanda shrugged, "She's dead, happy? Ah, you already knew? Well, the four Touten knights guarding her door have already been executed. Wren saw to it early this morn, picked the four weakest in his army. They were expendable to the cause, he said. He is already prepared with a statement for both sides," she sighed and ran a hand through her short dark locks, "You've got what you want. But have I got what I want, Clemence? I think not."

"Watch that, Amanda," Clemence warned, "I am the future king of Ivalice, and you mustn't speak so to a king."

"Not yet, Clemence, not yet. I got this from your spy from Dorter in Gariland today," she dug into a bag at her side and retrieved a small leather satchel and tossed it to him.

"Is that what I think it is?" Clemence caught the bag.

She nodded, "Would I give you something false?'

"This is the last piece of the puzzle. The last thing we need. You will be well rewarded, Amanda, despite your constant barbs," Clemence opened the satchel, lithe fingers ghosting against the aged parchment contained within.

Amanda nodded her head to the side, sharp angular features caught in a sudden sort of shadow, "Happy, yes? I told you it wasn't false. I've news also for you. My brother rides the waves from Lea Monde and will be here in a week's time. One of his attendants arrived earlier this week having set sail before him."

Clemence is beside himself with a sudden euphoria, "It's good, yes. I prefer to surround myself with fellow Valendians rather these Ivalicean dogs, but this Lord d'Erstile will serve my cause well." Then Clemence rose from his chair, striding over to the window and pulled back the thick green curtain. He leaned against the frame and drank in Gallione's countryside. The mist had lifted from earlier this morning and through the distance he saw the manor's maids hard at work picking plump red tomatoes from the vines in the gardens.

"I'm not an evil man, Amanda," the Valendian prince suddenly felt the need to clarify, "I won't oppress these people. Use them, yes, but be a tyrant, no."

"I know, Clemence," Amanda sighed, looking at the prince's back. Thin in frame and delicately boned, Clemence didn't have the look of the king, a prince maybe, but not a king.

"Is it so wrong to desire a fate denied me?" Clemence questions, and he sees little Emily hiding beneath the vines in the garden. Her fingers and mouth are red with the juice of the tomato stolen from the lord's vine, and for some reason Clemence finds the sight inspiring an eerie nostalgia in her heart.

"No, milord, it is not," Amanda answers respectful of Clemence's status for once, though she needn't.

* * *

It's all so damn heartbreaking all of the sudden, as Ovelia sits in her rocking chair going back and forth. Her handmaidens avoid her like the plague in this tiny monastery tucked on the edge of Fovoham. It's like being a child again, though she is Queen. Delita hasn't come to visit her for four months. Even his letters have stopped, and she hates herself for even wanting that wretch she calls her husband to write. No, she _needs_ him write, and it's so depressing that in her solitude she finally realizes what a bastard he is, but what really kills her is that she allowed it all to happen.

Ovelia fought the urge to vomit, and it was her fault that Ramza, Agrias, and the rest of his companions were dead, and she just stood by. She'll never see any of them again, neither the brave Agrias nor the good-hearted Ramza who could have just abandoned her as a mercenary but chose to pursue after her and protect her. Where did her voice flee to? Even now, it hides in her throat as her handmaidens hide from her leaving her in this hillside monastery, her personal Hell. Delita assured her that it was all for the best that she stays here while she is so incapacitated, but she knows better. His pride binds her here, and she is angry but willing to endure it because he loves her. _Love_, one half of her mind balks, then laughs at her childish stupidity. She is so stupid, and she cries, wiping profusely as tears spill from her eyes. She should be happy; they say this should be the happiest time of her life, and that her and Delita's romance is one found in storybooks. A commoner rises against inexplicable odds, rescues the princess in distress, and becomes king marrying aforementioned princess, but her life isn't that story, and her blood Vormav assured her isn't even that of a true princess's.

Ovelia walks over to the window, slow and weak in her step, from the rocking chair not content to work on her embroidery and over the hill she can see some lord's manor, his youngest daughter playing in the distance dirtying her pretty skirts, and Ovelia envies the girl. _She still has her innocence. She still has her freedom, and what have I got? _Ovelia runs a hand against her swollen belly; she must be strong. She can hold onto the lie for just a little longer, and she silently prays that Delita will change for the better. She prays that Ramza's and Agrias' sacrifice will have meant something in the end, that she, herself, can retain some dignity.

_I have to be strong, I am the Queen._

There's a knock at the door, and something isn't quite right. No one knocks at her door.

"Enter," she bids the knocker, her voice so soft and weak that even she scarcely recognizes it. Behind the door, enters Ramza, and her eyes screw up in confusion.

"But you're dead," Courtly speech eludes her tongue, and she points at him, forgetting that such a thing is rude.

"Am I?" he challenges. She nods emphatically, but suddenly Ovelia isn't sure so. It was the news that carried throughout the kingdom after the incident at Orbonne. The heretic Ramza had finally been declared dead, alongside his sister, Alma, but she can't remember if bodies have been found, and the sweet rebellion that stirs in her heart frightens her. She flees the room, faster than her legs for these last long months could have carried into an eerily familiar circular room.

"Agrias," Ovelia squeaks, her voice hollow.

The woman's mangled form mocks at her, "Rob me of life and you stand idly by?"

"No," Ovelia roars and cries.

"She is a murderer," a new voice joins the ranks, something like a half gurgle and grunt, and she looks over at the speaker. The blood in her face drains. Delita, but he isn't as she remembers him. One hand supports the head upon his shoulders, and dark blood seeps with each of his steps towards her from the wound in his side and the deep gash in his throat. His free hand, outstretched for her, clutches at her, and Ovelia feints to the right but dodges left, but as he corners her there is nowhere left to run.

* * *

"No!" Ovelia cries weakly into the nighttime air, jarred from sleep again with yet another nightmare. _This has to end. I don't know how much more I can carry on like this_, she lays a hand against her forehead, fighting the headache threatening to overwhelm her. Alma and Ramza talk amongst themselves at the fire, and it's almost time for her relieve Ramza of his duty. Rising to her feet, Ovelia feels her bones creak into place and she pads over to the fire, warming her bare hands.

Ramza merely nods and walks by her to his own bedroll, and Ovelia seats herself near Alma. Alma is silent for awhile, and Ovelia feels no need to start any sudden conversation still haunted by her dreams. The only sound that fills the air are the crickets of a late summer night which is soon followed by Ramza's even breathing, and then Alma speaks, "I've always found nights in Zeltennia to be amongst the most beautiful."

"Ay," Ovelia hums looking away and then adds wistfully, "I find any night beyond a monastery's walls beautiful, but Zeltennia's gentle rolling slopes are quite beautiful at night."

Alma looks over towards Ovelia for a moment and then into the fire, "But I do not find nightmares during such a lovely night beautiful, Ovelia. You know what I'm talking about. Ramza may feign ignorance, but this is thrice in a week that you've awoken from a nightmare."

"And what can I do about that," Ovelia snaps, and then immediately regrets her tone, "I'm sorry, Alma. You don't deserve this, but there's nothing I can do to stop them."

"Confide in us, Ovelia. I'm here, I'll listen," Alma touches the woman's arm, "I may be Ramza's blood sister, but I hope you can consider me your sister too."

Ovelia is silent.

* * *

Marquise Rosalie of Limberry rises sleepily from her bed. She hates maintaining these late night secrets from her husband, but how else is she to assuage her conscience. She pads lightly across the floor careful not to wake the sleeping man back in the bed behind her and leaves the room. Their great castle is quiet and it's still so strange to her after moving in after the Lion War. It is ominous and foreboding, almost as if each stone of the castle still shouts the name of Elmdor, and it makes her fearful because she and her husband are not of that lineage and because she thinks the great house haunted. A shiver runs down her spine as she traverses the narrow hall from her and her husband's chambers to her personal study in absolute blackness. She only knows the way by memory, running her hand against slick stone, grey during the day. Rosalie almost questions herself if this nightly pilgrimage is necessary, but her conscience assures her it is, and as she reaches for the key hanging on the chain around her neck, she opens the door.

Hers is a study with few books for she finds no pleasure in reading. Rosalie locks the door behind her, and then she makes her way to sit before the small rude table against the study's back wall. She lights a lone candle and the room is illuminated with its small light. Atop the table sits the candle, a quill, and lifted dust where something once sat.

"Where is it?" the Marquise whispered to herself, eyes scrutinizing the study. Someone must have stolen it, and she rises at once, checking sparsely decorated shelves on the room's remaining three walls. She scans the few books she has for the little tome, but the familiar crimson binding eludes her. She thinks it impossible that _it _could have been stolen. She keeps this room under lock and key at all times, but there is a fleeting chance that _it _could have been. Rosalie shakes her head; she thought she had the only key. She sees to the cleanliness of this room to herself, but there it is. The little book is missing, and she can't fathom where, but it's dangerous. Dangerous for her to have written it, and it will be a scandal should the thing ever come to light, and she will be thrown from her home and lashed by her husband for her crimes. Rosalie is at once consumed with fear and faints.


	7. Past Tense

Alis Volat Propiis

* * *

_ She Flies With Her Own Wings_

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Disclaimer: I am making no profit whatsoever from this story.

A/N: This chapter is the shortest of all of the chapters, but easily one of my personal favorites. Denamunda II (Or Denamda IV in the retranslation), Omdoria, and a lot of the other minor royal and noble characters that are killed early on in the story are so fun to work with and flush out. Probably one of my favorite parts of the actual game dealt with piecing together Ivalice's history through the tavern rumors and character profiles. The next chapter will be more Ovelia centric and much longer, but I can't promise that it'll be up fast.

* * *

Chapter 7: Past Tense

The cold road to Viura did not bring snow, only a bitter foreboding wind. Denamunda and his men formed camp ten miles from the city's massive walls. This was the last obstacle he'd have to conquer and then he'd be king of both Ordalia and Ivalice. Of course Valendia would be next. That was only logical, and after speaking with his generals despite the undeniable air of victory that permeated the camp, Denamunda found himself consumed with a certain gloom and retired to his tent.

Boots crunching on hard earth, Denamunda made his way pass the young knights on watch or running errands throughout camp. He entered the tent to find his squire waiting on him.

"Go, gather your strength for the battle tomorrow," Denamunda bade the boy waving his hand, and he was left alone with his thoughts- thoughts that threatened to consume him. This was all he had ever wanted, but it was too late. Hands gripping both sides of a large mirror, a man in his late fifties stared back at him. Where had all of the time gone to? Had he really been in Ordalia that long, continuing his father's war? He doesn't dare acknowledge that, but he is disappointed in himself, and Denamunda turns that disappointment tenfold onto others.

His own son, Omdoria, was born a sickly disappointment and was unable to accompany his father into battle, and Denamunda prays that he lives forever for that boy will damn his kingdom, but Denamunda remembers that Omdoria is no longer a boy. His son is a man, and Denamunda is left gazing into the mirror.

_I am an old king, an old soldier… an old man._

The thought flutters into his mind unbidden, and it's sour like admitting to a grave sin. He tugs at his beard, traces the wrinkles around his eyes, and wonders where his youth has gone. His son is married to a woman of good heritage from Gallione. Why is he thinking of that? Then, Denamunda realizes that the man he calls his son is a stranger to him, and that gloom he felt earlier after conversing with his generals wells up again, but he has his pride as any king should. He is going to be an emperor, and consumed in his thoughts, Denamunda doesn't hear the rustling of the flap to his tent.

It's too late when he turns, the dagger is already buried deeply in his back, and Denamunda doesn't even have a chance to gasp as he falls forward into the mirror, through the glass. Bloodied fingers grasp shards of silver, and he exhales, eyes closing for the last time, all thoughts rolling beyond his mind save for one. It smells of roses…it smells of _her_ scent.

* * *

Denamunda ruffles the boy's curly golden head, and he gives the boy a push out of the door. The king doesn't think he shall see him again for many months, and he makes his journey away from the gardens where his son plays and towards the stables. Two young squires flank his sides, and he bids them to ready his steed, but suddenly an attendant runs before him, waving his hand. There must be some urgent news at hand.

"Milord, milord," the attendant begins, panting as he speaks, "There is a woman here to see you."

The king frowned, "Tell her it must wait. There are more pressing matters at hand than the musings of a woman," he signals one of his squires to ready his steed, and the other to begin dressing him in his armor, but midway through his gesture a wild form pushes past the attendant.

Her eyes are ice, and her hair is wild. She is a soldier ready for war though her fine silk skirts and jewels declare otherwise. Ovelia. Denamunda doesn't know when or whence she's come back to Ivalice, but she is here before him to do battle _against_ him, and he feels a shiver travel down his spine for the briefest of moments.

"Ovelia," he stammers. Denamunda has never stammered before in his life, and he places his hand on her shoulder to regain some of his usual leverage over her. She swats his hand away as if it were some mayfly annoying her in the summer heat.

"Four years," she accuses, her voice high and hollow.

Denamunda suddenly regains some of his bearings and glares sideways to his servants, "Leave us," the king orders, and then levels his sharp gaze back onto the woman, standing before him defiant. Few have shown him such a hateful stare since the days of his youth, and he has long since been a man.

"I've been at war in Valendia," his statement falls on deaf ears. She's hearing none of it, and her nails dig in her palms tightly enough to draw blood. Ovelia lets out one sharp deafening scream.

"You lied to me, told me to go back to Valendia for my safety! Did you forget your son?"

Denamunda looked away suddenly, and then back to her, his chest swelled. Why must he explain himself to her? He owes her nothing, "Ovelia, I will not do this. I am king and I have my honor, my pride."

"Honor," the Valendian princess laughs bitterly, all courtly manners forgotten, "Denamunda, you have pride in abundance, but you have no honor," and then her voice lowers, threatening to betray tears, "You never loved me."

His eyes turn cold, "Yes, I never loved you," he agrees, "And, neither shall I ever love our son. Leave me, or I shall have you thrown out like a common wench."

Ovelia claps her hands over her mouth, "Ah Ajora," she exhales sharply. She flees him to her carriage and crashes onto the hard wood bench across from her son…their son no more than four years in age, Clemence. She has ever sacrificed her life....her dignity, earning for father's scorn and bearing his shame. She did all this for false love, whispered lies... for Denamunda;her heart is broken.

"Mama, what's the matter?" Clemence questions, his wide orbs a perfect copy of hers gaze across the coach.

The Valendian princess does not answer and stares through the boy, through everything, and softly she murmurs to the unseen driver, "The nearest port please." The carriage kicks into life, jerking every so often, and they leave the estate. Out of the corner of her eye, Ovelia catches the glimpse of a boy, he couldn't be more than eight or nine years Clemence's elder. His hair yellow and his eyes amber, she knows whose son he is, and it's that fact which simply kills her.

* * *

The war is still no nearer to being won, and Denamunda is frustrated. He's returned to Ivalice once more to the Larg family's manor in Gallione to discuss strategy.

"Balbanes, we can cut off the North from the South, if we capture this mountain chain. The passes in the mountains are few and dangerous. I trust you and your men are up to it," Denamunda looks over to his general, a Beoulve, the king's mind almost spits in disgust. Local folklore plays the family up to be holy saviors from the times of the Zodiac Brave myth, and this Balbanes attempts to play his ancestral role always going on and on about justice and disagreeing with him about his less than savory tactics, but as much as Denamunda loathes to admit it, he needs Balbanes' blade in this war, and he looks over to the younger Bestrada Larg who nods in agreement.

"My king, shall your son ride with us into battle? He is at knight's age, and it would do the men good to see their prince among them," Larg suggests softly. Omdoria has ever been a sensitive subject to the king.

Denamunda snarls waving his hand, "Such a suggestion is preposterous," and his pride will not allow him to continue. His son has ever been a disgrace to him; his only use having been his recent courting of Larg's younger sister Ruvelia, and even that union would not prove fruitful for some many years. He loathes having his only heir be so unquestionably weak. Denamunda slams his fist against the table with a renewed vigor, "This battle will finally be an end to the war."

Too used to feeling shame, Larg nods again in agreement, scarcely wanting to acknowledge that his king is weary. War is all that he has ever known from the time he was born to his inheritance of his father's estate in Gallione, and he too is weary. His ponders Denamunda's words. Yes, this war will end. It must, if it is Omdoria's to inherit than Ivalice will collapse.

* * *

_She is pretty, but in a way that inspires emotion far different from the carnal wants of his youth. She is all fine soft curls and wide amber eyes, they, a mirror of his. She is beautiful like an innocence he saw a long time ago. How long?_

Denamunda feels for what may be the first time in his life glimmerings of guilt as the woman presents the baby to him swaddled in a silken white cloth. A wrenching tear in his heart, he turns away from the woman, and hardens his voice, "Why did you bring this babe here to me?

It is hard to completely extinguish the habitual sins of youth, and he recalls a scenario eerily similar from years before.

The woman speaks, her tone soft and hushed, "I cannot keep her. My father swore me to the Church in my youth, and I've been so ever since. Having her…with me would bring disgrace to my family," and then the woman's voice is colored by venom, "After all, she is yours as much as she is mine."

There goes the heart wrenching sensation again stabbing at his chest, and Denamunda's speechless. This lowly nobleman's daughter stands here every bit as fiery as he, and he can't help but fear her, he the great commander running scared from a "holy" woman's reproach. His men would laugh if only they could see him, and he realizes suddenly amidst the madness that he is a soul more damned than any that walks on the face of the earth.

The holy woman craned her neck to find his lost eyes, and they are both silent for awhile. The baby suddenly coos against the harsh mood, the stale air, and the wrongness of it all in the hedge maze in the castle garden, and Denamunda becomes aware of his surroundings too. He is so very guilty.

The holy woman sighs, clearly exasperated, "I cannot abide this burden," she lays the babe at his feet, "I am a woman of the Church, milord, and you are king. She is your responsibility now," and lowering her veil, a thin gauzy material mocking him like a bride to be, she turns on heel and disappears into the maze, the night devouring her retreating form. There is only he and the babe, and Denamunda is dumbstruck.

He lifts the child into his arms, and he is amazed by how well-behaved she is. Her skin is still pink, and he realizes that she can't be more than a few weeks old. He is too old to be a new father again…too old for disappointment, and there's still a war to end.

"Ovelia," the name of his old mistress leaves his tongue unbidden. This child has his eyes, but all he can think of when he sees her is Ovelia as she was all those years ago. He cannot keep her despite however much he may want to, and if he has ever yearned for anything in his life it is that.

As he makes his way into the castle, he meets the cold reproach of his wife's eyes. She waits for him at the top of a flight of stairs, with a candle in one hand and the other on her hips. She is perhaps the only woman in his life never to have been fooled by his false charms.

"And what is that," his wife questions, her eyes impenetrable.

"A babe," Denamunda replies, hollow.

"I am not daft, my king," her tone low, "Whence did you come by this babe."

"I owe you no answer, my queen," he is a king and he has his pride.

Her shell cracks, and the Queen's eyes play for a moment at something like hurt, but she is too used to his lies and infidelities to be harmed any more. She is a broken doll, his broken doll, and her shell merely serves to haunt him. Any damage he does her now is cursory, Denamunda destroyed her long ago.

Something like defiance, her hushed voice unfurls quickly growing in volume, "I will not have her here in this house! Denamunda, no more," the Queen raced down the steps to stand before him, the candle in her hand shaking and wax dripping down her finely boned fingers, burning the flesh raw. Denamunda glances around quickly to see if there are any nearby guards to hear their quarrel. She continues, her teeth gnashing like lion's as she speaks, "No more. You and your whores can have your fun, but you will not do it in my house! It is mine as much as it is yours. This is not a haven for your bastards. You take and you take," she trails off.

Denamunda allows a coldness to wash over him, familiar and all consuming, "Go to bed, and await my return. What I do in this house is none of your concern," and he brushes her aside, not caring that she hasn't moved, and he makes his way for castle chapel, his child in his arms. He feels an overwhelming urge to pray.

* * *

Orbonne Monastery. The tall steeples of the building tower over him, embracing a yellow heaven. The sky is at war, and the cacophony of trumpeting soldiers in the firmament ensure him that it will be raining when he leaves. The ionized air stings at his nostrils as he inhales and then exhales, in and out; he closes his eyes and opens them. One foot in front of another he is approaching the monastery's doors, his mind lost to the past and future. His life is torn between two Ovelias. The dark haired princess, from his past, haunting him in his dreams and in the peripheral of his waking vision wherever he goes. Clemence, his son haunts him too; he remembered catching a glimpse of a dark haired youth at one of the noble parties a few months ago. Had his mother been there as well?

Shaking his head clear, Denamunda knocks at the large monastery's doors. Even a king is subject to the Church's authority, and an old priest gives him entry. The high pitched voice of a girl echoes throughout the building, "Uncle Denamunda?"

"I cannot see the girl today. What I've come to do must be done quickly. I ride to Ordalia for what will hopefully be the last time," Denamunda supplies quickly. In truth, he cannot bear to see the fair-haired Ovelia. She is a constant reminder of all of his short-comings, and even when he is emperor, he will keep her here, pledge her to a purer life like the one her mother failed to live.

"Do you have the parchment prepared, Father," Denamunda looks over to the old priest.

"Yes, my liege," the priest led him to a quiet tucked off room, and he could no longer hear his daughter's squeals.

Dipping a quill into ink, Denamunda begins to write.

* * *

Kicking, screaming, and shouting for joy in mock victory the boy raised a wooden sword high over his head. Leveling his eyes onto the plain beneath the ledge on which he stood, he threw his arms wide, "Someday…I will be king of all this land and the land far beyond that!"

And, it is all he's ever yearned for. He lunges off the edge, falling...falling into grass illuminated yellow by the brilliant sun. It's blinding and beautiful, and as he falls through the high stalks into cool darkness. Denamunda coughs blood, pawing weakly at the ground looking for a boy's toy sword to ward off his imaginary foes. The shadows grow long, and all he can see in the distance through the grass is the rapidly setting sun.


	8. Homecoming

_Alis Volat Propiis_

* * *

_She Flies With Her Own Wings_

* * *

Disclaimer: I am making no profit whatsoever from this story.

A/N: Ovelia tells two truths and a lie, and Ramza loses control.

* * *

Chapter 8: Homecoming

With Queen Ruvelia's death, the usual jovial mood in Zeltennia as autumn descends upon the proud city, too has died. Business is hushed, and red garbed knights patrol the streets far more thickly, interrogating any strange personage travelling in the old city. Martin d'Erstile sat at a table outside of a mostly empty café sipping at a cup of tea. Life is funny, he muses, in the short space of a week he's gone from heretic to royal advisor, overseeing the largest mobilization of soldiers since the end of the Lion War. He fiddled with the fine porcelain of the cup, running his fingers over the curved handle. The monk feels a stab of something like guilt at having dined in the noble quarter of the castle town but quashes it down with another swig of tea; he can't help but feel now that he was sent to Olan for a reason.

He listened to the idle chatter of two merchants passing at his back to the trading quarter in the city.

One muttered, his tone low, "They say the Regent's gone and cancelled the autumnal parade."

"It's bad luck, I say," The other replies, "Lots of strange things been happening up on the castle grounds. I hear things are going badly in the west too, right bad for business it is."

They continue on, and Marty isn't too surprised. It's the sentiment that he's heard throughout the city all day even here on the high end of town, and he's due to report back to Olan soon. The man will not be pleased. He leaves two copper pieces on the table and rises to leave. A light, cool wind blows pass him, and he turns, compelled by some unknown force.

A wisp of blonde, eyes like ocher, Marty's breath hitches, and he blinks again. He could have sworn that he saw Ramza, and it's true as Olan confided in him that his comrade is still alive, but Marty knows that he couldn't have seen him. The man is long gone, gone from Ivalice to dwell in Ordalia, but still Marty goes running.

* * *

Ovelia felt strange being in Zeltennia once more. It was never the city of her birth, that was Lesalia, but to her after having dwelt in it for nearly five years previous to this summer, it was like a second hometown to her. When she'd made public appearances as Queen, the people all parted graciously to give her wide berth and children would point, smiling broadly, and she'd return all those gestures with a trained heavenly grace, but here on the cheap side of town where the throngs were thick with peasantry and poorer merchants, an elbow in the ribs every now and then as she pushed through the crowd was not unusual or always unintentional.

She'd been here for nearly a week, and neither she, Ramza, nor Alma had successively devised any sort of way of meeting with Olan without revealing themselves, and there was still no word of Agrias' or her alleged madness. Ovelia gravely began to question whether her friend had ever been here at all or if that was just another of Caius' lies. She ducked into a low alley, dodging the hanging ledge of a low beam, and sat on a rude wooden crate. Her eyes pierced the stone wall across from her. Everything seemed so hopeless. Perhaps it was simply best to reveal herself after all, but…who would believe her? Officially, she had been dead for a month officially, having had a funeral and lay entombed up at the castle.

She stared upward to the slit of sky between the two buildings partially obscured by hanging clothes on line tethered between the walls. The sun sat high in the sky, and she was beginning to grow impatient. Ovelia had agreed to meet the others here at noon. They were late…perhaps they'd learned something of interest. She had no other choice but to wait anyhow. She stretched her legs experimentally. The new armor suited her well; it was a light, tawny, enchanted material, and her dagger lay sheathed at her hip. She was thankful that Ramza bought it for her, thankful even more so when the word of Ruvelia's untimely death reached their ears.

An event so bizarre fit in perfectly with the latest trend in Ivalice's politics. The woman had been martyred, and to what aim? To start another war? Ovelia grit her teeth. She'd need this armor and dagger to do battle when the time came, but part of her was almost glad an unseen had killed the tyrant Queen sometime in the night after everything Ruvelia had done to see her assassinated before the Lion War, and the other half of Ovelia was appalled. It was wrong of her think such things. Soft footsteps alerted her, and she looked towards the alley's end to the open streets, Alma…flanked by Ramza. Her eyes catching his, her cheeks flushed; she elected to stare straight ahead at the stone wall again.

"Learn anything of interest?" It was Alma that spoke first.

Ovelia shook her head, "Did either of you?"

"Nothing of import," Ramza murmured. The brother and sister took seats across from her on stray barrels standing against the wall.

"Another fruitless day", Ovelia sighed. The smell of open sewage festering in the alleyway was beginning to get to her.

Alma wrung her hands, "Sitting here we can't make a difference. We have to find a way into that castle. We have to see Olan."

"Well, with the Autumnal Parade cancelled," Ovelia began, "The hopes of him having seen us there are dashed.

A sudden rushing of feet into the alleyway made Ovelia jump into action, her dagger drawn- all too ready for battle. She narrowed her eyes at the man who'd entered the alley. He was garbed in Zeltennia's red, the black lion upon his breast. Azure eyes, chestnut hair, and a sun browned face, he looked very out of place to the usual crowd that flocked the streets of the cheap side of Zeltennia.

Ramza was up on his feet an instant, "Ovelia, wait," he held his palm out to her and turned to the man, disbelief stretching his eyes wide, "Marty…"

"Y-y-yes," the man panted, clearly winded and surprised at the same time. He strode across to Ramza and clapped the other man on his back, "How have you fared these long years, Brother?"

"Well enough, Brother, well enough," Ramza returned the man's enthusiastic gesture.

Ovelia sheathed her dagger and sat back on the crate dumbly, unable to completely grasp what had transpired. Alma was up to, striding over to the man, "My God, Martin. I never would have thought that I would see you again." Ramza stepped to the side, giving Alma space. She threw her arms around Marty's neck and laid a kiss on his cheek.

"There, there," Marty murmured into her hair, rubbing her back. Alma had begun to sob.

The woman toweled at her eyes with her sleeve, she stepped back taking in Marty's features.

"You've changed, Martin," she murmured.

"So have you. I supposed I can't call you little Alma any more…you have a warrior's eyes now, my girl," he replied.

Ramza cleared his throat, "How did you find us? None knew we still lived save for Olan."

"I hope you have time for a long story, Ramza," Marty replied simply. He turned to Ovelia, "Your Majesty," he murmured. Taking her hand, his lips grazed her knuckles, and he seated himself next to her. She blushed and looked towards her feet. She'd quickly grown unused to being treated like royalty after leaving Ivalice.

"Tell me everything," Ramza replied plainly.

Marty sucked in a long breath and recounted his story to them from the beginning, from his incarceration in the castle's dungeons, to becoming Olan's advisor and confidant, and his role in launching the full investigation into Ruvelia's death. In return, Ramza shared his story from his survival in the wilderness at Alma's side, glossing over most of the story, and focusing more in detail to the last month they spent with Ovelia, the meeting with Caius, and the slow return to Ivalice.

At the end of it all, two hours having passed, Ramza leaned back, his eyes skyward, "Funny, I would've never pictured you back in a nobleman's garb again, Marty," Ramza murmured.

Marty snorted, "Merely effects to please Olan, I still hold no claims for the d'Erstile name. The only reason I even stayed…is," Marty suddenly trailed off, clearly avoiding looking into Ramza's face.

The other man stared back at him, directly, his amber eyes, piercing, "Marty, is it true what Caius said about Agrias? That she is in that castle…and that she is mad?"

Marty licked his lips and sucked in a shaky breath. It was best to speak plainly in these matters, "Yes…and yes, Ramza."

A silence filled the alley, and Ovelia wasn't sure if she was relieved over finally knowing or if she was agonized that it was true. She cupped a hand over her mouth; a breathy sob threatened to break free.

Ramza rose from the barrel, his tone resolute, "Take me to her."

* * *

"Keep your hoods low and stay close to me. The nobles in the castle at this time of day are horrid gossips. We'll take the back way," Marty led the trio, all equally silent, all looking towards their feet. The urgency of keeping their identities secrets hadn't muted them. All Ovelia could think of was Agrias…Agrias throwing herself about her room in madness…Agrias sputtering incoherently…the Agrias that haunted in her dreams. She shook her head to gather her bearings, unsure of where she was even going. She looked about; she remembered these passes. They were right behind the hedge maze in the castle gardens; the Goltana family grew them many years ago to rival the majesty of its twin hedge maze in Lesalia.

Past the greenery, they stopped at a high stone wall at the castle's side. A staircase dug into the earth lay at their feet. Ovelia remembered this flight of stairs; she'd taken it back to tell Olan her final orders as Queen after she'd killed Delita. She felt sick seeing them again. The staircase led to the cellars, perhaps one of the most lightly guarded areas of the castle.

"In after me," Marty waved them to his back, and he opened the door. They stepped lightly into the blackness of the cellar. Ovelia could make out the distant flickering light of a dying torch at the end of the corridor.

"Wait here," Marty whispered. He stalked ahead of the trio with the grace of a panther. Ovelia was certain that beneath that advisor's garb he was a fine warrior. He turned back to them, his blue eyes gleaming in the low light, "All clear."

Ovelia ran her hand against the slick stone walls of the cellar, allowing herself to fall behind the others in step. Rubbing her arms, she shivered lightly. A sudden chill had whipped up about the woman, and it had nothing to do with the cold in the dank tunnel. Was she truly ready to see a mad Agrias? Ramza hadn't spoken a word since they'd left the alley in the castle town or had he looked at any of them. His eyes were trained onto the path before him, making his journey step by step like a proper soldier, and it unnerved Ovelia to see him so. She'd known since their brief sojourn in the Ordalian Mountains that Ramza's feelings for Agrias ran deep. She sighed, feeling neither jealousy nor betrayal…Ovelia just felt tired.

A light scratching further off in more distant tunnels brought the group to a halt.

"Only a rat," Marty whispered, and signaled for them to continue on. Light grew in a steady abundance as they turned left down yet another corridor and began climbing stairs, a slow dreadful march. Ovelia looked back often, wondering if she could just run away. She wouldn't run anymore. Her legs climbed automatically; her spirit soared above her body, refusing to have anything to do with the automation that was her body carrying her to her greatest fear. Numbly, Ovelia observed her surrounding wearily. She knew where this staircase led, to Duke Goltana's old apartments, specifically to his study. Delita had taken up office there using it as his council chamber after he'd slain the Duke in the very room. Did Olan use it too? Ovelia disliked the place…too much blood and deceit had soaked into the carpet for her tastes.

At the top of the staircase, Marty rapped against the door with certain urgency, and any business being conducted in the study immediately quieted. The door creaking open ever so slightly, Ovelia's heart leapt, despite the dour circumstances, at hearing Olan's familiar tenor again.

"Martin, what is it?" Olan asked, his tone barely above a whisper, "I am in a conference with a courier from Limberry at this very moment."

"It is a very urgent matter…one of which I must urge you to speak about with me alone at your earliest convenience. I shall wait by the door if necessary," Marty replied. He glanced down to the trio at middle of the staircase; Ramza in the lead expectantly looked up at his compatriot.

"I shall send the courier away for now," Olan disappeared back into the depths of the room for a moment. Ovelia could hear the sound of a door's bolt being done, and then Olan returned opening the door more widely, then pausing, his mouth open and face frozen with incalculable shock. He stuttered, "M-m-my word, Ramza, Alma…Your Majesty?"

They shuffled into the room from the cellar, each hanging against the wall far apart from one another. Ramza strode forward. His eyes locked directly upon Olan's, "Agrias, I must see her, now," he emphasized the last word, something in his voice completely changed from the quiet yet charismatic leader Ovelia had known Ramza to be. This new Ramza was steely and demanding.

Olan faltered under Ramza's gaze and took a seat behind the large oak desk in his study. He was quite dumbfounded, "Well, I…that is to say," Olan stammered at first, and then quickly composed himself, "There is a great deal we must discuss first."

Ovelia silent all the while felt it was her role to step in. She placed a hand on Ramza's shoulder, to calm him. She, herself, had never seen him so. It unnerved her. Alma and Marty stood back, and the atmosphere that'd overtaken over the room left everyone feeling breathless.

Ovelia inhaled, thinking over what she was going to say, and then spoke, "Olan, we know of Clemence's schemes, and we, we felt it was our duty to return to Ivalice…to aid you in any way possible," what she was going to say had flown out of her mind as she looked into Olan's eyes, and she was compelled to suddenly explain herself, "Oh, Olan, if I'd known they'd void my orders …I would've divorced Delita and saved Ivalice the proper way, even though the Church forbids it for a woman. I-I did it because…I wanted revenge," her voice broke after the sudden admission, and Ovelia fell to her knees in the center of the room at Ramza's feet, confessing her sins to everyone who'd hear her in the room, "I hated him for what he did to me, Olan…Ramza. You can't have known what it was like was a mother to lose her only child and to have her husband be so uncaring. He never touched me again, instead he took one lover after another, and then one day in the chapel…I looked over to him and realized how horrid he was…how much I hated myself for pardoning him, for allowing so many people to die. And to think I did because I believed he did it in peace's name, because I was too foolish to see past my flights of fancy…too naïve to be the Queen that Ivalice so desperately needed," she paused, taking a shaky breath, "I didn't kill him for Ivalice; I killed him because I-I-I truly am no better than he ever was," sobbing completely now, Ovelia reached feebly for Ramza's hand even though she wanted to shrink away and disappear. It wounded her to be in the presence of someone so radiant. She gazed up at him through red-rimmed eyes. His virtue shone like sunlight.

The room lay silent…no one truly sure of what to say, or what to do, and then Ramza surprised her, pulling her to her feet, "I shan't judge you or hate you, Ovelia," he murmured, laying his forehead against her, "We build our lives anew one day at a time," he wiped away a stray tear, treading down her cheek, and then pulled back.

"Forgive me," Ovelia murmured aloud.

"You are forgiven," Alma softly replied, "All of our lives were touched by the evil of that time."

Ovelia looked towards Olan once more, continuing undeterred with a renewed vigor, "Neither the nobility of our lands nor those west of Bethla Garrison in Lesalia, Fovoham, and Gallione shall have me back as Queen, even if we were to perjure an intricate story to explain my death away. The power vacuum has been allowed to fester long enough, and one faction would question my identity whilst another would question my noble birthright. Yes, I know that I'm an orphan or some nobleman's unwanted bastard that was conveniently supplied to Omdoria when he had no heir, but now I can prove useful for once. War is looming ahead for Ivalice…I can't bear my country to suffer any longer. Olan, you need capable, _untraceable, _soldiers to halt it now more than ever. We can be these soldiers. Zeltennia must appear as neutral as possible with Ruvelia's assassination still quite fresh."

Olan gazed back at Ovelia with a newfound admiration, but against inevitability of it all, her words provided merely hope, no foreseeable solutions, "What can one man do, Ovelia? Fate has conspired against us it seems. Ivalice will never know peace."

Ovelia walked forward, leaning over the desk to take Olan's hands in her own, "My friend, one man can save the world," and he scarcely knew how true her words were.

He squeezed her hands, affectionately, "You are truly a monarch, Your Grace. Blood means little more than water in the face of true virtue...it's a shame that our fellow nobles fail to see that. It seems Ivalice is in short supply of virtue these days...She only knows lust and gluttony, and we only have ourselves to blame. It's not surprising that a foreigner was so easily able to sweep in and cause chaos. The tide of history is changing whether we want it to or not," Olan sighed, "Enough speculation...we gain nothing from whimsical philosophizing. I know you are all still very eager to see Agrias. Before we discuss these plans further…I think it is best you see her first, but please brace yourselves…her condition is severe," Olan rose from the desk and signaled Marty to unlock the door to the study and peek outside.

"All clear," Marty scanned the long corridor in either direction.

"Very good," Olan replied, "Martin, please go ahead of us and relieve the guards at the door for now."

Marty nodded and left the room. Olan turned back towards the group and truly drank everything he could about them in, his gaze settled for on Ovelia…it felt as if he were stripping her to her core, seeing past everything, seeing something she scarcely understood. Her confession still left her reeling, almost drunk on a new inner lightness.

"We shall wait a few minutes for Martin to finish his business," Olan murmured, and then he spoke more intimately to Ovelia, "You've changed, Your Grace."

"All for the better, I should hope," Ovelia muttered. It was eerie to be in the same room with the man she'd entrusted her kingdom to scarcely a month ago, once more. She looked up; her eyes tracing his face…that short time had changed him as well. Ivalice's many trials utterly extinguished the light mirth that used to dance in his eyes, and there were quite a few more gray hairs in his tightly bound dark locks that hadn't been there before.

He almost seemed to shy away from her inspection, and looked back out towards the hall, "We should move now…quickly."

Subconsciously the trio pulled their hoods back over their faces, following Olan down the lavishly decorated hall. Ovelia, herself, despised the breathtaking splendor that clung to the walls: beautifully painted portraits, golden goblets and other gem encrusted little trinkets on shelves, and marble statues of long dead nobles. When she'd first entered the palace after living in a poor, provincial monastery since her early childhood, the finery left her breathless, but now she knew the cost of such luxury, thinking of starving beggars and dead children in the street.

Olan turned suddenly, and they climbed up a small flight of stairs. Ovelia swallowed remembering where this led…to her old personal apartments.

"We thought it was best to keep her here. I forbade all people to go past your sitting room bar the necessary staff to help care for her," Olan whispered back to her. Striding through the parlor, the study, and finally to a closed door, Olan knocked softly.

"Martin," he called.

The man opened the door, his expression grave. They entered the room, and Alma, the last to enter, silently shut the door behind her. Before the window, seated silently, Agrias stared out of the window. Her face wasn't visible to them. Her hair was scrubbed clean and hung loosely about her shoulder; Ovelia had never seen so, fondly remembering the tight martial braid the swordswoman kept it in, and was momentarily distracted. She wore a simple loose white frock, also pristinely scrubbed.

Ovelia felt something momentarily not too dissimilar to relief; she preferred her former mentor silent rather than raving. It was easier to pretend that the woman was still sane, but then Agrias turned and looked at her…directly at her, her gaze wide, glassy, and utterly mad. Ovelia's heart stopped, and Ramza pushed past her, uneasy. Ovelia placed a hand on her chest. Ramza hadn't noticed…he couldn't have, and Ovelia didn't want him to see, to truly realize just how far gone Agrias was. _Don't look him in the eyes, _she implored the other woman silently. The room lay silent as Ramza scooped Agrias up in his arms. She did not reciprocate the gesture. Ovelia exhaled sharply…she wasn't even aware that she was holding her breath.

"Agrias," Ramza crooned into her hair, rocking her back in forth in his arms.

"Ramza," her reply came as a hoarse whisper.

Ramza suddenly perked up. He tilted her chin up towards his face to stare into her eyes, "I knew you weren't mad, they tried to tell me you were mad, but I wouldn't believe it for a minute. I'm here again…I'll never leave you again…" Ramza trailed off into nonsensical sweet murmurings that none of them could hear.

Ovelia cupped a hand over her mouth, not wanting to look at them for another minute. Couldn't he see how deeply her lunacy ran?

Olan started to speak, when Alma suddenly placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking her turned to look at the woman at Olan's side incredulously. This had to end. She couldn't allow Ramza to suffer this way. She began to pace forward, when Marty, who'd been immobile until then, caught her hand. Her attempt to wrest her had away from him was in vain; his grip was fearsomely strong.

Pulling her close to him, Marty leaned to whisper in her ear, "Please, Your Grace, just let them be. Ramza will accept it sooner or later. He loves her very much, and he has to learn to accept…that she's broken."

"That's not true," Ramza yelled, looking back at Marty, his eyes hot, "I heard you…look at her, she's sane!"

Ramza gazed adoringly at the woman cradled listlessly in his arms. She suddenly gave a great moan, "Dark…dark! I'm falling! Ramza," Agrias called for him pitifully despite him standing right there, she wrapped in his arms.

"Shhh," Ramza hushed her, "Agrias, I'm right here. Can't you see me?"

"The beast has a hold on me! Where are you?" Agrias wailed, flailing in Ramza's arms, "She's going to kill me! Help me! Ramza!"

Ramza's voice dropped an octave, raw with emotion, "I'm right here, Agrias…right here. Please, please…tell me you can see me," he dodged her flying hands to kiss her forehead. Her spasms worsened, and weakly she fought her way to her feet. She felt as if she were cemented to the ground while she watched the whole scene unfold. To see Ramza so completely deluded, no, so willfully caught in self denial chilled her. The Agrias that stood before them, as Marty had affirmed only a moment ago, was completely destroyed, a fragmented remnant of her former self. The white frock she wore hid her sickly thin figure when she sat, and the ethereal beauty she'd once possessed faded away into deep set wrinkles which most women twice her age possessed.

"Alma," Ovelia pleaded, "Make it stop. Cast a sleep enchantment on her, please!"

"Wash away into the silent sea of dreams, sleep!" it was Olan who'd cast the spell instead. He'd already been murmuring the soft syllables of the incantation after Agrias made it to her feet. Ramza caught the woman as she fell and glared angrily at Olan.

"Why?" he demanded, hotly. Ramza's face was transfigured into an ugly grimace of hate, the likes of which Ovelia never saw cross his face before. He carried the woman to her bed, and quickly closed the distance between him and Olan, bounding over to the man, raising his fist to strike him.

In a flash of movement, Marty caught Ramza's fist before he could deliver the blow.

"Calm yourself. I may call you brother, but I won't allow you to do something you'll regret, Ramza," Marty growled darkly.

"Please," Olan attempted to explain, "You must understand, Ramza. It's all we can do for her…to keep her from injuring herself."

Ramza sighed, completely defeated, appearing so lost, dejected, and fatigued that Ovelia couldn't help but to be moved with pity for him. Marty released him; the Beoulve's arm fell limply to his side. Agrias sleeping form mocked them all, her features finally calm. Looking much more like the Agrias that Ovelia remembered from her past.

* * *

In the end, Olan decided it was best to put their discussion off until tomorrow afternoon and sectioned off an area of the castle near his apartments for their usage. Ovelia spent the majority of the day in the room given to her, reading a book she'd pulled from the bookcase opposite her bed. In all honesty, she'd thought far more than she read. Ramza hadn't left his room since he'd seen Agrias. Alma confided in her some time later that he hadn't even spoken to her. Later on in the day towards the evening, she and Alma dined with Olan, and then retired to their separate chambers leaving him to finish the meeting with the courier they'd interrupted earlier and to hear Marty's full briefing.

Now late in the night, Ovelia tossed and turned in her bed unable to sleep. She thought of Ramza. Why had he returned her kiss a week ago on the road between Zeltennia and Zarghidas? Her thoughts ran deeper than her silly infatuation; she was worried for him. Ramza had endured so much loss in his life…would this send him over the edge too? She sighed miserably into the nighttime air, and threw back her sheets, throwing her legs over the edge of the bed. Barefoot, she padded across the plush carpet to stare out of the window onto the castle's garden. The moon glimmered on a pond in the center of the garden prettily, but the scenic view gave Ovelia little comfort. She wouldn't have any peace until she spoke with him, she reasoned. Rubbing her arms against the chill, Ovelia pulled on a robe lying across the back of an armchair over the gown she wore, grateful that Olan provided proper nightclothes for them.

She left her room, careful to walk quickly and as silently as possible. Counting the doors in the corridor as she came across them, Ovelia stopped at the one she knew to be Ramza's. She knocked softly and received no reply. Should she turn around and go back to her room? No, she shook her head. She was here now, and it was time to be bold. She turned the door's handle, surprised that her friend hadn't locked it.

"Ovelia?" his gruff whisper came from across the room.

She nodded, her eyes meeting his. She closed the door behind her.

"Why are you here?" Ramza looked away.

Ovelia crossed the room and sat the edge of his bed, "I won't force you, but if you want to talk about _it_, I'm here," she murmured, "Neither you nor Alma ever told me everything that happened in Orbonne Monastery three years ago…" Ovelia allowed the sentence to hang in the air.

Ramza remained silent.

Ovelia began to rise from the bed, "If you want me to leave, then I'll go, Ramza."

Ramza caught her hand before she could leave the room, "No, I want you to stay."

"Very well," she replied simply, taking her seat once more tucking her feet beneath her. She turned to him, rather than gazing off into the gloom of the room, giving him her full attention.

"Do you remember the Zodiac Brave myth?" he asked, lowly.

She nodded.

"I'm afraid Ivalice will never know just how true that old myth is, Ovelia. The zodiac stones did exist…they still do, but now only as powerless relics, but they never summoned the holy knights of legend as we were deceived to believe, Ovelia, but you know that part of the story…of the monsters that these simple little orbs made men become. What happened in Orbonne Monastery was a long, bloody battle horrid enough to drive a man mad as Agrias was driven so. There was so much more at play than who'd rule the throne. Vormav…no, the twisted beast that he became was on a quest to revive his master, as I told you. I saw Hell, in all its infamy that day, fighting men again whom I'd seen die only a few months before that day," Ramza shivered at the memory, and Ovelia gave his hand a pat, urging him to continue. He needed to talk about this, and she needed to know, "We made our way to this floating craft like one of the airships of the old times…and there Vormav was trying to transform Alma into one of those demons."

Ovelia's jaw dropped. She hadn't been told that; she thought Alma's sudden finesse with powerful magic had been odd even though the woman had always displayed a natural adeptness for it even in their youth.

"Ovelia, I'd never been so afraid in my life," Ramza confessed, "I thought I was going to lose her, and it terrified me. She was the only family I had left. If I lost her…I would've been alone, completely alone. One of my brothers had transformed into one of these demons, and by my own hand I was forced to end his life. My other brother was bound to a curse, and I killed him as well. I couldn't bear to have to kill another of my blood, especially Alma, my dearest sister…Vormav almost succeeded, but it would seem that Alma was too imperfect a vehicle for Ajora," Ramza laughed bitterly, "She was far too pure to be corrupted by the demon I once worshipped as my god. After losing control of Alma, she transformed into the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen in my life, but hers was a dark, corrupted beauty…and then the final transformation came…an abomination like a giant rotting corpse with the wings of a bat. She slew five of my comrades that day; the blasted and warped carnage of their bodies haunt my dreams still, and when I thought we'd finally slew the beast…"

"Yes," Ovelia urged him on.

"It seemed that she was simply not content to die without trying to take us with her. I don't know what she did, but I remember the heat and the flames…reaching out for Agrias' hand and catching air, and then I awoke in the forest beside Alma…completely convinced that I was mad," Ramza fell silent then, and Ovelia absorbed the tale in its entirety. She'd known he'd thwarted a great evil and had saved all of Ivalice. Even then, she'd known something major had ended when Delita called back three regiments of some of Zeltennia's finest warriors to the front from observing Orbonne Monastery, and when the dust had settled, Delita proclaimed everyone that'd gone inside the monastery dead, but she hadn't expected anything quite like Ramza's tale.

_That perfect bastard_, Ovelia's mind screamed, thinking of her long dead husband. He knew perfectly well of what he was sending Ramza into. Unaware of what she was doing until her arms were wrapped around his neck, his chin resting on her shoulder, she held him.

"I'm so sorry, Ramza," Ovelia owed him an apology and much more for just standing idly by while Delita manipulated the world for his own greed. They sat this way for a long time, neither of them speaking, and then Ramza pulled away to pull himself into a sitting position, level with Ovelia.

"Now answer me this, Ovelia," his breath warmed her neck, and he pulled back. Ovelia couldn't read the look he was giving her, and something in his eyes set her ill at ease.

"Yes," she stammered nervously, her voice so helplessly near. His breath warmed her face.

"Why did you kiss me a week ago?" he breathed, his words barely above a whisper.

She sighed but was unable to turn away, "You are cross with me," she stated, "I don't know," she lied. Ovelia knew perfectly well why she'd kissed him, "I knew then you loved Agrias, and yet I…"

Ramza nodded, "And I don't know quite why I returned it…we can't do this, Ovelia. I cannot deny that I am drawn to you in ways that I shouldn't be," he took her hands, "But, I cannot dismiss the love I have for Agrias so easily as if it were nothing. I owe her more than that. Perhaps there is no a remedy for her madness, but I simply cannot abandon her."

Ovelia nodded, understanding him completely. Ramza's unerring sense of justice shone through like always, and Ovelia loathed herself for coming between Agrias and he. Yet, it was still so heartbreaking.

"I should go," Ovelia mumbled. The statement was halfhearted even to her ears. She pulled her hands from his and padded across the carpet, back the way she came.

"Sleep well, Ovelia," Ramza called quietly across the room, suddenly, keeping his voice low enough not to wake anyone, "And, thank you."

She nodded and left the room.


	9. The Schemes of Mice and Men

_Alis Volat Propiis_

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_ She Flies With Her Own Wings_

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Disclaimer: I am making no profit whatsoever from this story.

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but this update is well worth the wait. This is the longest chapter yet.

Chapter 9: The Schemes of Mice and Men

* * *

_We are like insects tangled in a giant web awaiting a spider's maw to crunch our bones and destroy us all._

Gentle rays of light warmed Ovelia's face as she woke slowly and stretched her arms high above her head. It couldn't have been too far past dawn, and as she stirred, all of the musings of the night sat strangely in her mind. She pulled her legs into a sitting position, wondering what to do next. Inactivity seemed so strange compared to a life of constant movement; it reminded her of the old days when she'd sit quietly for hours at a time in the castle waiting to be fetched. She scowled, being at another's beck and call made her want to run madly through the halls, but that course of action would have been unwise. Goodness knew who Ovelia could bump into, and it wouldn't much matter who. The shout would be the same…a dead queen had arisen from her grave and roamed the castle.

She tossed her legs over the side of the bed, wriggling her toes in the plush carpet. It'd been far too long since she'd indulged in such luxury, and there were certain creature comforts that Ovelia would never be able to deny missing. Slowly, she dressed in her soft clothes, fine, worn linens and then her armor, leather decorated with badges of earth and monster blood, testaments of her new life, and she then moved about the room, reluctant to be perturbed by her worries. She strode to window watching the swaying flowers in the gardens and sighed heavily, memories of a former life wafting through her memory; images of Delita, tender and romantic as he led her to believe he was, placed his hands upon her shoulders. The fair phantasm smiled against her cheek; Ovelia shook her head. That time was another lifetime ago, before everything became so complicated- before the Lion War, the events that led up to it, and before her death, and these damnable feelings she had for Ramza. Then, she elected to sit quietly, waiting more or less patiently with a grace she'd nearly forgotten over the long month she'd spent in Ordalia.

A sudden knock on the door alerted her. She hopped to her feet and ran to open it.

"Yes," she called.

"I brought tea, Your Majesty," the speaker replied, expectantly. Martin d'Erstile, Ramza's and Alma's odd friend who'd she only just met the day before.

Ovelia let him in and motioned for him to sit at the small dining table in her room. She seated herself opposite from him. Martin or Marty as her friends called him brought a spectacular little feast: steaming aromatic tea that invigorated the senses, chilled exotic juices from the South, tea cakes baked early this morn, newly picked fruit, and richly seasoned venison. They ate for ten minutes in a companionable quiet, and then sat comfortably until Marty broke the silence.

"Your Majesty," Marty began.

"_Ovelia_," she corrected.

Her companion quirked a brow, "Wouldn't you prefer to be called by one of your titles?"

"Would you prefer to be called by yours, Ser d'Erstile? You are of noble upbringing, I presume," Ovelia replied lowly.

He laughed, "You are a cheeky one, Ovelia. You never displayed this much spirit when we first met."

"Oh," Ovelia tilted her head to side, at a complete loss. Where had they met before? Had they met when Ramza rescued her all those years ago? She'd never really spoken with his companions, and she couldn't recall their faces. Agrias cloistered her away from the others whom she'd labeled then as ruffians and mercenaries.

"It's fine if you've forgotten, Ovelia. I donned the monk's garb then, and I would be a wandering ascetic even now," and he trailed off for a few moments, "But, I'm needed here."

Ovelia nodded, "I understand, but I'm curious…what brought you Ramza's side? I've heard of your family. The d'Erstile family is a powerful landowning family native to Gallione, correct?"

"Aye," Marty replied darkly and continued, after drinking deeply from his cup, "I hadn't the luck to be some cousin to the house. It's a long tale, but I don't want to be a stranger to you any longer seeing how much Ramza and Alma trust you, and this tale is one that I feel you'd understand best."

"Me?" Ovelia stared at him with wide eyes, incredulous.

"Yes, you, Ovelia. We aren't so different from one another…both like birds freed from their cages. I was born into the d'Erstile family, second in line to inherit all my family's lands. I was born to a coward…a hateful man always wanting more than what was his. Never having fought in the Great War himself, Father thought it prudent that my older brother be sent to battle. I, at my tender age of ten, was being groomed for the priesthood, a life lived in the shadows…out of the way so that I would never be tempted to compete with my brother once he returned a hero," Marty looked away falling silent. He stared lowly into his teacup, taking it in one hand, sipping slowly in an almost retrained manner. The delicate china teetered on the saucer as he placed it back on the table.

Ovelia took a pensive breath and sought for his eyes, looking into them meaningfully, "What happened?"

Marty spat out, his teeth bared, "My brother was butchered on the plains just beyond Viura's gates; the King had been assassinated sometime in the night, and under the command of all of the bickering generals, Ivalice's ranks fell apart, and you know the rest of that story, but after Father received the news, suddenly I became the favored son," and then her acquaintance calmed, his tone growing sedate, "Forgive me, Ovelia. It sickens me now…the bastard shed nary a tear. At the next light, I found myself enrolled into the Academy, and then he thought it best that I endear myself to Beoulve family. In truth, he'd loathed them. I suppose now, he'd thought they'd taken his house's rightful place as the most revered and loved in Gallione."

"And so you became like Ramza's brother," Ovelia stated, thinking over what he'd told her. There was a question on her lips. She wanted to know why he'd broken with his family's house. Something about his spirit didn't strike her as being as fiery as Ramza's, but she remained quiet listening on.

Marty snorted, "I give you leave to say such...but we were nothing like brothers at first. As boys, we competed in everything, and Ramza already had his dearest friend, Delita, and I being the perfect little model of my father was a complete ass; I loathed the other boy for his common upbringing. Though my and Delita's relationship remained civil at best, through the years Ramza and I grew closer, fighting alongside one another when we were sent out on junior cadet missions. I had dreams of being a knight in those days…dreams of defending honor in the way all knights do. I began courting Alma then too. It was only appropriate; we adored one another."

"You and Alma!" Ovelia exclaimed. She clapped a hand over her mouth. Their embrace in the alley had been affectionate, but she couldn't have even fathomed that they were…

Marty smiled, "Yes…I knew my father was beside himself with fury, but he didn't dare speak against it. Ours was a good match that would end the long rivalry between our families, but as it always must…something happened that changed all of our live forever. Did Ramza tell you of the night at Fort Zeakden? I could understand if he never spoke of it."

Ovelia nodded silently, her eyes a mirror of solemnity like his. That was the night Algus, another noble bent on endearing himself to the Beoulve family to save his own family name, murdered Teta, Delita's sister…that day irrevocably changed all of their lives, and in retrospect, Ovelia thought, the course of Ivalice's future had been torn asunder as well.

"I ran, Ovelia," Marty whispered, "I ran far away, further than Ramza had to Lionel. I was lost…the knighthood I'd wanted so badly suddenly seemed false. I didn't know myself any longer. It was my job to protect the weak, yes?"

Ovelia knew his question needed no answer, and she reached across the table, taking his hand.

He squeezed it, "Thank you. I began to journey like a common pilgrim. I'd discarded my armor once it'd rusted through the rain and sleet as I wandered until all I possessed were the ragged soft clothes on my back. I lived on the kindness of the very peasants whom I'd been schooled to quietly hate, and then I found my calling…it wasn't the priesthood my father originally intended for me but a sacred vocation of a different nature. Somewhere in wilderness outside of the Port City of Warjilas, I'd found a monk…or rather he'd found me. This man, at least seventy years of age, stopped in his step as I was about to pass him and took my hands. He took me in his tutelage…teaching me the lost martial arts from the wildernesses of Old Kerwon, to the distant East. I shed myself of name and title and pledged to live simply, and a year and some months later, he turned me loose. He made the man I am today, and when I met Ramza again, shortly before joining him to rescue you, we knew life for us would never continue on as it had."

Ovelia exhaled suddenly; she hadn't even been aware she was holding her breath. This Martin d'Erstile was really one of them…a monk from the old days. There were few still in Ivalice that weren't secluded in hermitage and even fewer still willing to pledge their skills to a noble.

"It must pain you to stay in this castle…in those clothes," Ovelia flicked her gaze to his red attendant's attire.

Marty's eyes went dark for a second, "In part, but I must go to where I'm called and help those who I can, and after meditating long on the issue, I find myself most needed here…helping Olan protect Ivalice's peace…and serving _her_."

"You're a good man, Marty," Ovelia complimented softly, meaning every word.

"We should go now. Olan wants to speak with you," Marty replied, blushing slightly at her sudden admiration.

"Shouldn't we wake Alma and Ramza as well?" Ovelia questioned.

"We shall fetch them along the way," Marty answered, "We received word earlier this morning of an incident at the borders between Ivalice and Ordalia that I feel you could educate us about."

Ovelia sighed, "Pray tell, did this news involve three supposed lords of Ivalice?"

"Yes," her companion flashed her a rather pointed look.

The young warrior felt a headache swiftly approaching as she began to recount the full story of the incident with Caius and this mysterious Lord Aurelius, the spy's apparent benefactor. It would be a very long morning indeed.

* * *

Breakfasting with Lord d'Erstile had become quite the habit as Clemence found himself seated at the man's table, the lady of the house absent this morning. They ate in silence, the mood that morning abnormally dour despite the bright weather and the warm air floating through the pillars on the garden terrace. Clemence glanced ever so often at the dining lord, his face was troubled, and it had every right to appear so. He firmly hoped that Lord d'Erstile's words just a few days ago weren't merely for show.

"Lord d'Erstile," Clemence murmured silkily.

"Aye?" the other man answered distantly, his eyes gazing far off to the fields in the east.

"Have you any word from the other lords of the West? It would be best for us to begin assembling our forces," Lord d'Erstile turned swiftly, and Clemence smiled, watching him and waiting.

"My words were hasty ones to the courier, my boy," d'Erstile began.

"Surely Her Royal Majesty must be avenged, and our tarrying adds to the insult," Clemence interjected, his voice rising a notch. He'd stopped eating, his knife and fork lying at either side of his plate. The Prince schooled the sudden tightness in his jaw into a demure nobleman's calm.

The clattering of silver in the hall behind them stopped. They'd gained the attention of the scullery maids going about their daily chores in the shadows of the estate. Lord d'Erstile faltered incalculably, attempting to save face before his household, "Yes of course, my boy, of course Her Royal Majesty must be avenged, but to charge so hastily into war would," and the lord arose from his chair across the table to whisper into the Prince's ear, "Such an action would invite the peasantry's scorn. The Lion's War was lost not through any foolishness on our side; we were crippled by an onslaught of peasant revolts. We mustn't appear to be the aggressors though we are the ones wronged in the end."

"Yes, of course," Clemence patted the lord's robed arm patronizingly, "Your wisdom triumphs once more, but we must of course call a council and rally our allies nonetheless."

"Of course," the lord agreed.

"And within the hour, I will ride for Fovoham to Lord Kalona's castle," the Prince mentioned suddenly as if in passing but slowly enough for his companion to catch.

"To that knave's keep!" d'Erstile shouted, standing to his full height, looking down on Clemence with severe reproach.

"Please understand, my good man, I will get to the bottom of this matter. The Touten order weren't Ruvelia's _only _protectors…I've heard that Lord Kalona, in order to appease the Crown in Zeltennia, left Nanten guards to stand watch over her innermost chambers. As a son of Fovoham, I am certain that Lord Kalona is beside himself with righteous fury."

"Bless you, my son, I rightly praised you as Denamunda's sire. You've inherited all his cleverness. Make an ally of Kalona, and we'll have double the strength to crush the Nanten should this boil down to war. Return here in a week, and I shall have all of the most prominent lords assembled in Larg's Castle, such a place is fitting it would seem," Lord d'Erstile kneeled to kiss the man's fingers as if he were already king and bowed all the way back to his seat.

Clemence rose at once, "I must be off then."

"Go with God, my son," d'Erstile waved him off, and Clemence turned, stalking down the great halls, his robes billowing out behind him. As he walked, Clemence admired his host's wealth, thinking of how soon his own great castle and wealth would dwarf even this one. He was his father's son indeed, and d'Erstile couldn't fathom just how much.

* * *

"Doctor, is there anything more to be done for her?" the Marquis leveled his gaze severely on the significantly smaller, elderly man as he stroked his wife's fair silky hair. Her beautiful features were creased with lines of worry, and seeing her face so drawn and pale made him anxious. It would be the undoing of their legacy should she die. Unlike many others of his class, he really did love his wife, and if the unfathomable should happen to her…then he, himself, would be undone.

The squat doctor bowed humbly, "Nay, Your Excellency, nothing else can be done for her bar the attention of a cool cloth to her forehead to break the fever," he leaned over her uneasily sleeping form and adjusted his spectacles ever so slightly to examine her further, "I think it is nothing, milord, save for the delicacy of the gentler sex. Has she suffered such swoons before?"

"Nay, never, not since we've married or anytime before that," the Marquis adjusted her pillows and frowned, thinking back.

"Please, Your Excellency, do not strain yourself," and the doctor leaned over the Marquise to examine her more closely. He placed two fingers at the pulse in her neck, the beat was steady and firm, but this unnatural sleep and the fever were so unusual with the paleness. It could be a malady of the mind; her body was otherwise strong…but to suggest madness in one of the gentry? He'd be gambling with his life, and he wouldn't risk that. The doctor stood and placed the instruments of his craft slowly into his leather satchel, "I'll return and conduct more research. If her fever does not improve by the evening I shall call for a chemist to brew a poultice to wake her from it forcefully and then we will cool her with submersion."

"Yes, yes," the man replied, distractedly, patting her hand and waved the man off, "I shall fetch you, Doctor, should the fever does not abate," then, leaning closely, the Marquis crooned into her hair, his voice weak, "My dear Rosalie please wake soon."

The doctor shook his head and shouldered his bag, opening the door to the bedroom, stepping into the hall. He clucked his tongue at the two maids lurking at the door, eavesdropping, and made his way back to his home and his books.

The maids were left behind standing in the hall, dusting, their cheeks flushed at the news.

"It's a right shame 'bout the Missus," one whispered, beating her dusty cloth against her dirtied apron.

"Aye, it is, they say she was found on her back in her little study, stark mad crying 'bout some little book! You didn't hear it from me though, Mary. The Marquis would tan my hide if he heard me gossipin' 'bout his sweet lady," she snorted, and the other maid, a tall and gangly girl, called Mary laughed.

"Mine too, mine too! Sweet lady, hah! She'd work us to death were she awoke. I am glad she's so woozy all the sudden."

"Now, don't speak unkindly and so loudly! You shouldn't forget your place, and who might be listenin…" the maid looked all about her.

"Nary a soul is here save us two here dustin' and polishin' old statues," Mary stuck out her tongue, "And, I thought you was supposed to be on kitchen duty today anyway! Wasn't Anne supposed to be here with me? You know what Oriane would do if she caught you two swappin' places again!"

The other maid colored, "I know, I know, but she said it was important…important 'nough to make the walk to Limberry town proper early this morn."

"Really, that far! I wonder what she's up to now," and with that Mary let the conversation drop and the two finished their duties in silence leaving the hall behind to work in another. Some ten miles away, a slight, rude thing skittered underneath overhanging ledges dodging sewage as it was chucked in the streets from high windows. She clasped a little red book to her heart as if it were the most precious thing in the world. She paused suddenly, teetering in her step and stared from one squat building to another on the cheap side of town.

She settled on a dingy wooden little structure that stood apart from the rest of the townhouses and huts and walked right up to it, rapping at the door.

Throwing back the door, a man stuck his head out and regarded the girl sharply. His sunken eyes narrowed, and his gaunt face was fixed in a grimace, "May I help you, girl?"

"I-I-I," she stammered and quickly recalled the business that brought her to his door. She curtsied, smoothing out her rough skirts, and began to speak, "I've a proposition for you, Ser. My name's Ann-"

He interrupted, "And what could a hard, ugly child like you offer me? You're obviously someone's scullery maid…shirking your duties no doubt, and if you have something stolen to proffer to me, then I want no part of it!"

Just as he was about to slam the door in her face leaving her where she stood, the girl leaned close, "Ser, I understand your plight with Missus Rosalie, and if I were to offer you somethin' to put you back in the Marquis' favor."

The man halted, "And just what are you saying, girl? Anne, was it?" she nodded, and he smiled, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth, "Well, come in, come in, my dear girl," he waved her in, "And just what do you know of my plight?"

Anne smiled nervously, "Missus Rosalie accused you of something rather…well bad-mannered, but you see, I was watching her the last few days…she always acts right strange during the night, and so I followed her and saw this book," she presented the little red tome, "You noble types, pardon me, always seem to be so secret like 'bout your deeds that I thought maybe this was one of them things called a diary, and seeing as how you was a disgraced knight and all," she clapped her hand over her mouth, knowing she'd spoken out of turn and waited for the knight's rage, but nothing came.

"Go on," he replied kindly, but something in his eyes frightened her.

"Pardon me, Ser," she continued, "I was hoping you'd buy this book. My mama…well you see, she's real sick and this hot desert air isn't at t'all good for her, and I was hoping for a thousand…"

"A thousand what, girl?" the knight laughed, "That is simply preposterous. You see because of that wench in the castle you serve in, I am without land, title, and gold, but I think you'll still give me that little book, Anne."

The maid began to back away, "I don't think-"

He closed the distance between her and door, shoving her out of the way, "You see, you peasant dogs don't think!" he roared, "And what's to stop me from going straight to the proper authorities, reporting that you've stolen from your lady? You know what they do to girls like you, Anne? Thieves?" he drew a horizontal slash across his neck with his thumb, and she gasped.

"I'm no thief, Ser! Honest!" she protested.

"But what's that little book, Anne, in your hand there?" he mocked the little girl.

She held the book out to him and pleaded, "You can have it. Please, please just don't tell them knights. I don't wanna die, Ser!"

He snatched it from her, smiling nastily, "Of course you don't want to die, stupid girl," and he leered down on her, inching closer with the book clasped at his side, "You can't even read what's in here, can you?"

The girl shook her head rapidly left to right, and he sneered, "Of course you can't, little beast. Now run back to your castle and back to your lady. Breathe a word of this to anyone, and I'll kill you," he snatched open the door to his hut and pushed her outside, knocking her to her knees. She rose immediately, running off, and he was left with his book.

"How fortunate," he purred, thumbing through the diary and stopping on a particularly interesting page. The moment he'd woken up today, he knew that it would be a very special day indeed. It seemed that his bad fortune was finally reaching a turning point.

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Olan sighed and held his head looking at the three across from him, "This ordeal in Ordalia is yet another dilemma that shall plague Ivalice," he dipped a quill into ink, signed the document lying in the center of his desk, and sealed it, "Martin, see to it that this order is delivered to one of the swifter couriers," he handed the letter off to the man standing at his right.

"Of course," Marty took the envelope and nodded at the trio as he passed them, making his way for the door to the study.

"And that leaves just us," Olan muttered, "You've left me a busy man, Ovelia," he motioned to the plethora of papers crowding his desk.

The woman opened her mouth to speak and then aptly closed it again.

It was Ramza who spoke, quite calmed of his anger from the day before, "The situation with Caius was unavoidable."

"Yes, t'was _foolish,_ but, I concur, a venture of necessity," Olan echoed hollowly, "I've looked into this Lord Aurelius. His house isn't one of the most powerful in Ordalia, but it is influential enough to allow this rumor to…fester."

Alma shook her head, "We are only just that to the Ordalians- rumors. I wouldn't pay it any heed," and she waved her hand in air as one would when scattering smoke, "The hired blades that accosted Ramza and Ovelia were well paid not to return to Aurelius, and Caius knows better than to mention us again. We weren't seen in Ordalia…I am certain of it, and it would only make him more the knave to his lord were he to speak against us further and threaten ruining his benefactor's standing amongst high society, and to instigate a war between Ivalice and Ordalia once more would ill favor them. They've scarcely recovered more than our Ivalice since the end of the Fifty Year's War. I assure you of that, Olan."

"I apologize, but my concern is due. It seems many threats that I'd thought minor…even negligible have become quite divisive forces in Ivalice of late," the Regent deadpanned.

"Clemence," Ovelia supplied, and he nodded, "When did he first arrive in Ivalice? I would have... should have known if he'd first come while I still reigned."

Olan smiled bitterly, "He's been here for more than a year's time. In those days, I had little power then, and Delita thought it best to keep me to the outposts or else I would've informed you. He was the one to reach out to Clemence…to invite that wolf amongst sheep."

"How emblematic of him!" Ovelia grunted, sarcasm coating her tone. The nerve…of all the secrets he'd kept from her. Why could he never consult her? She was naïve then, but certainly not stupid. She could never deny that Delita had a certain draw to him that made him a leader of men, but while he was an apt commander only on the field, in the nature of Ivalicean politics, he had been sorely lacking.

Ramza spoke then, "And what of this matter with Ruvelia?"

Olan answered, "I've assigned a team of men to Martin to investigate the matter. I've also assigned the Crimson Three to the task, but no useful information has been circulating the streets…I will dispatch Martin to the West to question Wren Kalona directly. I avoided it initially…the nobles of the West would be indignant should we question one of their own, but we must quiet this matter as soon as possible, and then there's the matter of her funeral. To bury her quietly would earn scorn from all sides, but it's probably for the best lest I invite more suspicion regarding the circumstances of this murder."

"What would you have us do?" Ovelia suddenly asked cutting across whatever else Olan had to say. She had to know; after having journeyed so far from Ordalia, she would not be content standing idly by as the land she loved fell into yet another war.

"I," Olan ran a hand through his hair, "I've given it thought, and I should like for you to journey west as well to Lesalia, but, Your Majesty, I must request that you remain behind."

"What!?" Ovelia squawked, clearly indignant. Her face flushed, "I will not."

"I concur," Ramza muttered quietly.

She glanced sharply at her left where he sat, her eyes afire, "Have I not been an equal this entire time amongst you?"

Olan answered first, not giving Ramza the chance to defend himself, "My reasoning for wanting to you to stay has nothing to do with your skill as a warrior. I'm sure you've proven yourself capable after having lived in the wilds of Ordalia for so long. You are Ovelia Atkascha…one of the last of your lineage. Should we devise a way, you may just be able to return to the throne. Ivalice needs you."

"That path is closed to me now, Olan. You know that. To name me as queen again would only cause disquiet amongst the nobility throughout all of Ivalice. Orinas has been named heir to throne, and after all, we all know that I am not the true Ovelia."

"All of that may be so," the Regent argued, "But at some later time there may be a way. I cannot have you risking your life."

"And what of Alma and Ramza," she contested, "Are their lives any less worthy in your eyes than mine?"

"Your Majesty, that argument is not fair in the slightest," he spat back, leaning over his desk, leveling his gaze with hers. They traded several more barbs, one bordering on rudeness from Ovelia's side, and a sighing Olan gave Ovelia leave to continue traveling with Ramza and Alma. Olan drew a map of Lesalia from a drawer in his desk, marking Ruvelia's palace on the outskirts of the grand city. It was no doubt still occupied by her captors, Olan had reasoned with them, and it was prudent for them to travel lightly once they actually arrived in the city. Lesalia was a city thick with spies, and not all of them were his; even the ones that were loyal wouldn't allow Ramza to simply walk by. Dead or not, he was still a heretic.

"I cannot pardon you or even reveal that you're alive," Olan frowned and looked away, "My hands are tied in more ways than one. Though the Church's most powerful are dead, the people, themselves, still widely support it. They've finally named a new High Priest. It shan't be long 'til they're fully recovered."

"And it will be all the worse for us once they do," Alma heaved heavily.

"But, for now it will be better for us," Ovelia replied, "People see merely what is cursory. If none are looking for a dead noblewoman, heretic, or queen, then, we shan't be found."

With that, Olan gave Ramza the map and dismissed them, having to attend to other duties. He saw to it himself that they'd returned to their quarter of the castle unseen and unheard, then returned swiftly to his study, two men with some trouble in Limberry awaiting him. Ovelia found herself in a rather spacious room of books, no doubt Olan's personal sitting room. It suited him, she traced her fingers across the tall spines of earthy smelling tomes- countless volumes on the sciences and the study of magic. His curious, little, golden instruments lay about on a short table in the center of room; they'd collected dust in his absence. She smiled sadly. He no longer had the time to entertain his own hobbies. It made her so guilty to have knowingly thrust all of this responsibility on his shoulders, but he was a wise man making the kingdom's most difficult decisions. Though he'd deny it, Ivalice would be in a far worse state without him.

Alma had taken up residence on a daybed near a long window in the room. A large curtain, a pretty green that Ovelia's noted as Olan's favorite shade, partially obscured her from view. The other woman was leafing through a book of art, and then Ovelia chanced a glance at Ramza. Her cheeks colored with anger. How indignant of him! He hadn't the right to suggest she remain behind as well. His eyes caught hers, and he looked as if he were about to speak but thought better of it and looked away, content to ignore her and her displeasure. It was unbearable to stay in the same room with him. She'd found his sense of chivalry quite charming when he'd inducted her into their odd party, but now, it was only undue arrogance. She was a capable warrior, and she needn't be so mollycoddled as if she were glass that could break under the slightest prodding.

Ovelia left the room, returning to the one Olan had given her during their stay in the castle and donned her cloak. It was foolhardy what she was planning to do, but it was so unbearable to stay within these walls for a second longer. The autonomy she'd won was crumbling before her eyes. Was she a child that her life could be dangled before her eyes as if it weren't her own? She loosened a pane on the window in her room and pushed forward. She hoped the catch could be repaired; it couldn't be helped that it stuck, and she jumped outside, landing clumsily onto the grass beneath the window.

The air of the day was warm, and it felt nice to have the sun shine on her skin rather than through glass. She ducked behind the hedges, hearing voices draw near. She couldn't be discovered so quickly. The voices drew closer, a laughing man and woman walked by arm in arm on the other side of the hedge. She turned a corner, peeking through the pathway carved into the hedge maze. This way led to the flower gardens, and she wanted the path for the crypt. She turned right, her steps light and cautious, and Ovelia glanced backward and forward as she continued down the winding road, blinking back tears as the memory of her last visit to the crypt washed over her.

It wasn't a far walk there, but Ovelia had been tempted to turn back and vent her anger in her room rather than go to that wretched place. She rubbed the old stone and leaned her head against the door. There were no earthly guards here; the living needn't watch over the dead. She pushed open the door, shutting it behind her. Blackness engulfed her, and she felt idly for the unlit torch mounted to the wall. She chanted a soft fire spell that Alma had taught her a few weeks ago and lit the torch. The pale, gleaming skulls of the Goltana family's servants and knights loomed ahead of her lined along shelves. Their bones slept beneath her feet, and she strode deeper into the crypt, her boots echoing off the hard earth as she walked.

Familiar names began to emerge, their ornate lettering engraved deeply in the wall. These were great men from old times, men from stories she'd read in the monastery in her childhood…her would-be ancestral cousins were she truly of the blood line. Travelling further beneath the earth to vaster expansions in the tomb, she counted the doors aloud, "One, two, three, four," she continued on, her voice sounding small and wobbly even to her own ears against the chorus of imaginary phantoms gathered at her feet following her as she came down the hall and descended a long flight of stairs. She stopped at the sixth door; it wasn't the door she remembered from her last visit. It was cast in marble bearing her likeness, Delita's, and that of a child held in her arms. Her fingertips brushed against the child's image and fell limply to her side. She gathered up her courage and opened the door, pacing down a short corridor until she reached her destination a small, rectangular room. It lacked the majesty of the older rooms in the tomb having been quickly built.

Three raised coffins greeted her. One housed her husband, another empty, and the third…her infant son. It was so eerie standing here as if it were almost taboo to look upon _her_ grave; her name was carved above it, and then her eyes fell upon her son's grave. He'd survived scarcely a week after she'd given birth, but that fleeting week was the happiest time in her life. He'd been so sickly and small, but she couldn't have imagined loving another person so much, and then in the night as she held him in her arms, his small awkward cries died down. She'd thought he'd been sleeping, but it was evident he hadn't with his little body so blue and chill. Delita never acknowledged the child, never conceding that perhaps there had been a chance of his survival. He informed her in quite a detached fashion that he'd seen the plague, cold, and hunger take several of his brothers and sisters while they were still in their infancy, and he wouldn't waste the time getting attached to a babe so sickly and admonished her for doing so.

She'd collapsed, screaming, as the priests lowered his body into the coffin and slid the heavy, stone lid over it. The ceremony was small, pitiful even conducted more out of a necessity to honor tradition on her husband's behalf; she'd had no say in how it was carried out. Only she, her husband for half of the time, and the necessary clergy attended the funeral here, in this tiny room tucked so deep within the crypt as to be forgotten, allowed to mold over as the pages of history turned forward. Officially, Delita had even barred her from even naming him, and Ivalice never knew the prince it lost.

Upon seeing his name, Larsa Omdoria Atkascha Hyral, neatly and freshly carved into the stone above his little coffin, she fell to her knees and placed her hand at the engraving, tracing each letter with her index finger.

"Olan," she said aloud, her voice echoing in the room. He'd known…she couldn't find the words to thank him. She brushed away a few stray tears.

"Your Majesty?" a lone voice called out from behind and she stood quickly turning. It was Olan; she backed against the wall, searching for what she could say next. It was unforgivably foolish to have come all the way here and having risked being discovered, jeopardizing their plans.

"I-I-I," Ovelia bowed her head slightly, "Forgive me, t'was reckless to journey here."

Olan sighed, "You are forgiven, Your Majesty."

"Ovelia," she supplied suddenly, "That title lies in yonder coffin. The Queen died a month ago, and here I am haunting you," they both smiled suddenly, their mutual conspiracy ironically amusing against the chill, subterranean climes and the smell of corpse soil and decay.

_Larsa_. She brushed the indented stone once more, "I thank you for this, Olan."

Both were silent for a moment and then he spoke, "I visited you everyday here as if you had truly died. I'd talk to you sometimes and him too. Tis a quirk of fate that I should really trade words with _you _in this tomb," and then he glanced towards the small grave that housed her son's body, "I thought you'd never return, Ovelia, I truly did, and how could I not honor your last wishes even the _unspoken_ ones."

"There are no words I can speak to repay the kindness you've shown me," she whispered, "The name, _Larsa…_my son's name. It originates from Old Archades, a great emperor by that very name long ago restored peace in the main continent, freeing many a subjugated kingdom and ended a long war. It has come to mean peace today. T'was my hope that after mine and Delita's passing during our son's rule, Ivalice would know true peace. It is for him that I fight."

"Thou who art noble in thy heart shall rule the land with thy love not thy might," Olan murmured.

"From the Grimoire Atkascha…I'd almost forgotten it," she replied softly and began to recount the following line, "For thou must be like a servant unto thy people…I think I shall return to my room now."

"And, I'll take my leave as well, but I must beg you to tarry here just a bit longer. I am flanked by two guards wherever I go. They await my return," and solemnly bowing, Olan left. Ovelia waited ten minutes and snuck back the way she came, passing through the hedge maze. She pulled open the pane to her window and quickly climbed inside just as a gardener who'd been busy pruning walked by.

The next hour passed more or less uneventfully as Ovelia decided to practice her technique, jumping about the room as quietly as one could when fencing in a castle. She thrust into the air, her sheathed dagger cleaving through some unseen foe, and then she parried backwards dodging a blow. She was so engrossed in the task that she'd almost missed the soft knock at the door.

"Yes," she called, thinking it was Marty fetching her for the afternoon meal.

"It is I, Alma." Ovelia smiled. She'd greatly dreaded for a moment that it might have been Ramza, and she was still rather cross with him from earlier.

Ovelia undid the latch to the door and allowed the other woman to enter. She beckoned for her to sit at the table at which she and Marty had breakfasted during the morning.

"I apologize for not having any tea for you. It is the custom of visiting ladies in such a lavish chamber to gossip over tea and cakes," Ovelia joked.

"All is forgiven, but if it happens again, then I will be forced to think you rude," Alma smiled, taking a seat across from Ovelia. She gazed around her for a moment, "What a pretty, little room. I think I have cause to be jealous. It would seem that Olan favors you out of our trio. You have a beautiful view of the garden. I've always wanted to see Zeltennia's famous hedge maze, I've only ever seen the duplicate in Lesalia."

"Tis a marvel. It spans on and on, if I hadn't taken to walking it quite frequently whilst I lived here, I'd be easily lost in all of that green," Ovelia stared to the window, grinning. All of days at court as a queen hadn't been bad ones.

Then, Alma grew somber as Ovelia had scarcely seen her so, "I won't deny we've faced danger in Ordalia, but where we're journeying, goodness knows what can happen. I would have liked to teach you how to use a bow, but it would seem you've chosen your weapon. The magicks are hard to master as well, but I would like to tutor you in the white magicks that I do know.

"I'd be more than willing to learn," Ovelia quickly replied, "Most magic I do know is from my days at the monastery, and it they scarcely helped with more than the priest's chores," and then Ovelia's face fell.

"What is it?"

"Alma, do you think me…a burden?"

"No, not at all, Ovelia, what gives you cause to think such!?"

"Earlier, during the meeting with Olan, Ramza agreed that I should stay behind, and I asked him the same question then. He never answered."

"Oh, Ovelia," Alma patted the woman's arm, "Perish the thought at once. Ramza was just being well…himself. You've proven yourself well enough on the field. Remember the battle in the swamp?" Ovelia nodded, and she continued, "Well, that couldn't have been won without your quick thinking and skill."

Ovelia smiled sadly, "You are kind, Alma."

"Truly, Ovelia," Alma praised her, "You have more skill with a blade than I could ever hope to have and with magic as your command, you'd make even Ramza a formidable foe."

Then, there was another knock at the door. This visitor, Marty, had come, fetching them for the afternoon meal and to meet Olan once more as they finalized their plans for the journey west.


	10. Men of Stone

_Alis Volat Propiis_

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_She Flies With Her Own Wings_

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Disclaimer: I am making no profit whatsoever from this story.

A/N: I apologize for the long lack of updates. This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but it does have some interesting developments. I'm probably not going to be able to guarantee another fast update because I'm swapped with a lot of other work at the moment, but I will be uploading edited versions of the earlier chapters over the next few weeks to fix some rather minor errors I've spotted. I'm also changing this story all to one verbal tense rather than having the semi-poetic shifts from past to present that have been present in the some of the earlier chapters.

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Chapter 10: Men of Stone

Clemence had been awake since early that morn when his carriage passed into the mountains, rocking and jerking as it rolled up the steep pass. He opened the little carriage's window and inhaled the pungent sea air breezing over the cliffs. They mustn't have been far from Larner Channel now though he couldn't see it past the thick evergreens and high peaks. The mountains always reminded him of Valendia, of his childhood. As he closed the window and reflected, the carriage pulled to an abrupt stop almost throwing the frail man to the floor.

"Who goes there?" Lady Amanda barked, who rode at the head of his guards, "You two," she called, "Guard the Prince!"

The Prince found it hard to feign bravery in the face of an unknown danger. What could have halted them? There was scarcely an hour left in the journey to Kalona's keep. A sudden tapping at the window alerted him, and he unlatched it looking into the steel-masked face of one his helmed guards.

"Mountain bandits. The captain tasked us with your protection while she and the others ward them off," he explained, looking off into the field.

"How many?" Clemence asked, subconsciously wringing his hands.

"Twenty against our twelve, but they are badly armed and even worse tacticians. The fight is in our favor."

"Very well," he replied, closing the window once more. With such favorable odds, the sounds of battle suddenly didn't interest him, and not twenty minutes passed before the skirmish ended. A sudden tapping drew his attention once more, "Yes," he murmured, opening the window yet again.

Lady Amanda leered down upon him, reeking of muddy fields and freshly spilt blood; the woman was as uncouth as ever. He grimaced, "Report."

"We've slain nineteen of theirs and one fled. We suffered no casualties save minor scratches. We shall be on our way once more and near Lord Kalona's keep soon enough," Having nothing else to report, she nodded curtly and rode back to the front to lead the party once more. There was a certain madness in her that enjoyed killing which made him shudder. He suspected that many of the corpses littering the mountain path were slain by her hand. The rest of the journey passed without incident.

Standing high and majestic against the mountains as if it were carved out of the very face the cliff it sat upon, Kalona's castle rose in the distance, all hard stone and walls. Clemence could hear Amanda shouting orders and then talking with two men that he knew weren't his own. He glanced out of the carriage; they were between two high towers at the very edge of his new host's lands. One of the men noticed Clemence's head peeking out and nodded, waving the company on. Soon enough they found themselves before the massive castle, the sounds of war training filling the air and pulling each and every one of them to attention. The Prince could already hear the passionate Wren Kalona over the noise making his way to his carriage, shouting at his coachman for not rousing his lord fast enough.

"He needn't bother," Clemence opened the door himself and cast his coachman a severe mock stare, stepping down from the coach carefully, "His lord is already roused."

"Ah, hail to you, Your Highness!" Kalona clapped the man's arm, "Walk with me and share how you found our good d'Erstile. I fear that my own castle isn't nearly as pretty as his…you'll find it more a fortress than a home, but I do hope you enjoy your stay here as well."

Clemence smiled as they strode up the path to the fortress's massive gates. Men ran laps in soft clothes around the field surrounding the castle; another company fenced in armor. This was but a small part of the fighting force that would win him the crown, and the man at his side would lead it. Like his mountain home, Kalona stood tall, strong, and wickedly clever by his own defensive nature. Always planning, always thinking, Wren jumped at the opportunity to serve Clemence's cause when the Prince approached him barely a year ago. Seeing his plan finally coming to fruition, Clemence was glad to have the lord as an ally and not as an enemy.

"I found him to be every bit as you told me. Passionate to a fault…easily manipulated but influential enough. He has called a council which all the lords will attend in a week's time. Will you be amongst them?" Clemence glanced over at his companion.

"Nay, I must return to Bethla Garrison before then, to interrogate and be interrogated," the man replied.

"Oh?" Clemence followed him into the fortress, down a corridor to his meeting room, a grim, and little grey room. There were two chairs both cast from the pine that grew plentiful in the surrounding mountains and a small rude desk between them, papers gathered at one side. Kalona sat and motioned for Clemence to sit across from him.

The lord smirked slightly, "It would seem that Olan thought it wise to launch an investigation into the matter of Ruvelia's death, but it allows me to kill two birds with one stone. You see, at this very moment my second in command now lies in chains deep within Bethla. He seemed to disagree with me over who stood watch over the Queen a fortnight ago. He remembers my men guarding her, but I and these documents," Kalona motioned to series of schedules and charts folded neatly on the desk, "Specifically remember his men watching over her. They've already been executed, but he…I must wait until Olan's interrogator arrives, and I am left in an interesting quandary."

"How so?" Clemence brow arched as he strained to see what Kalona saw, "The matter seems already resolved to me."

"Oh, that matter is. Olan will lose face whatever support he has left in our lands, make his own men regard him with suspicion, and I will be left without supervision, but to name a new second…that is a difficult task, but your Amanda."

"My Amanda," Clemence echoed.

"She has served with me for a year now, and she's a clever strategist. I would be honored to have her work under me, though I can understandably see if you refuse to part with her."

"Aye," Clemence thought the matter over. He would loathe parting with Lady Amanda. His fellow Valendian was more than a skilled swordswoman; she was one of the few friends he had that he trusted implicitly, but she would serve him better here. Wren Kalona was the sort of man that needed looking after, "Amanda does as she will, but if I ask her, she would serve you."

"It's agreed then," the lord grinned, "Tell me, did you enjoy our beautiful mountains on your way here? I can't imagine that these mere foothills could ever rival the unparalleled wildness of the Valendian countryside. I should like to visit there one day and test my strength against those peaks."

"I enjoyed them well enough…though we were set upon by brigands only an hour away from here," the Prince murmured.

"These thieves grow bolder every day," Kalona growled, "Forgive me, Your Majesty. They are broken remnants of Death Corps. They still persist in these mountains. My men have ventured to destroy them, but some vermin are hard to exterminate. Did you come by a main road? I shall chastise my men when they return from their patrols if these brigands attacked you on a merchant's pass."

"It is of no matter, Wren. We came by one of the back ways, and they were badly armed," and then Clemence gained a strange flicker in his eye, "Did I inform you that I have…well had a sister?"

"Ah, I take it that you've seen the document from Orbonne then," Wren suddenly looked up at the other man, "Carolus reported that he and his men did not have an easy time finding the thing, but I couldn't have fathomed that the late Ovelia was one of Denamunda's as well. Omdoria had always claimed her as his. It was always rumored that she wasn't his daughter. I'd always thought she was of noble lineage for her features were far too fair to be a commoner's sire…but to truly have been of the royal bloodline! If this document had been found just several years earlier, I wonder if there would have ever been a war."

"Better for us that she is dead. Were she alive, we'd have quite the predicament, but I think I would have liked meeting her. I do think that her mother is still alive…an abbess of good name in a monastery not too far from Gallione so says the parchment," Clemence murmured his gaze far off thinking of the father he'd only known from afar. In his old age, Denamunda seemingly attempted to repent for his many sins and gave his son some acknowledgement even if done secretly; he'd drawn up an addition to his ancestral tree in a provincial monastery- Orbonne Monastery.

The paper verified Clemence's existence, his right to name, title, and the right to rule so long as another son purely of Ivalice didn't still live. _Orinas_. His eyes narrowed. The boy's very life was just another obstacle. Through his mother's assassination, he'd hoped to discredit the boy king's standing. So far, his plan was steadily succeeding.

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Ovelia wasn't fond of farewells, but she'd said her goodbyes, pulling Olan into a fierce embrace before she left. When she'd see him again, she couldn't know. They'd bid Marty farewell then. They'd be both travelling to the Lesalia Province but separately, by different passes; the knights accompanying him would grow suspicious of three hooded strangers amongst them. The trio would forward Finnath River then stay the night in Bervenia, the free city; Marty and his company would travel south through Bed Desert. Ovelia had shaken the monk's hand, and then, Alma and he stood apart from them speaking quietly for some time.

Zeltennia lay several days behind them. They'd reunited with their steeds in the castle town, owing a rather hefty fee to the stable master who'd maintained them. She ran her fingers through Rose Red's silky feathers. The chocobo cooed in response; she'd been carefully groomed and her talons polished. Ovelia smiled down at her steed.

"I missed you as well, dear girl," she whispered, leaning close to beast's great neck, and then sat tall, staring into the distance. A low band of thunderclouds were rapidly sweeping upon them. The sky rumbled. How soon would the rain fall? She looked up. They must've been near the Finnath by now; she hoped they could forward before it began raining otherwise they'd have to break and make camp. The wind whipped up, blowing her hair wildly around her head, but there was still no rain.

"Faster!" Ramza ordered from far ahead. Ovelia dug her heels in Rose's sides, urging the bird in a sprint. Its mighty talons tore at the ground, kicking up grass behind them. Another thunderclap echoed, and lightning peeled the sky like a sudden streak of white paint against a dark canvas. Faster and faster, they ran against time, against the coming rain. The river awaited them, already swollen and faster than what was crossable; the trio screeched to a halt at its edge.

"We'll have to find a narrower crossing," Alma murmured.

Ramza stared south, "If I remember correctly, it is narrower downstream. Come."

They resumed their pace still trying to beat the rain, and then Ovelia felt a drop against her hand, which was followed by a splash against her neck, and then a downpour.

"Halt," Ramza threw his fist in the air, signaling for them to stop. Ovelia pulled Rose Red to a complete stop, its talons skidding slightly in the damp, muddy grass. They dismounted and pulled away from the river's side lest a stray current course over its swollen side and drag one of them in. Miserable and sodden, they huddled together sitting beneath their steeds for warmth.

Ovelia patted a despondent Rose Red who in turn whined pitifully. The woman clucked her tongue, "For shame! At least your feathers tread water."

Then, Alma spoke as she wrung out the hem of her cloak, "Is there any cover from this rain nearby? A cave, perchance?"

"No such luck. These are the flatlands," Ramza said, shaking his head. Ovelia pulled her cloak close and hugged her knees to her chest, shivering despite the warmness of Rose Red and the others so very near her. The party was content to remain silent, all thinking that it was better to remain so as they were all feeling rather cross. Then, a low sound rumbling that stood apart from the thunder caught Ovelia's attention. She peered past her knees; massive shapes roved against the mist that'd settled upon the land as the rain poured.

"Alma…Ramza," she whispered, "There's something out there."

Alma looked up, "I can see them, but they are too far out to tell what they are just yet."

"Whatever they are we should be ready to meet them should they prove unfriendly," Ramza stood, unsheathing his sword. The chocobos were already upon their talons, and Rose Red warked, nervously backing away from Ovelia ever so slightly. Ovelia glanced back at her companion; its crimson feathers were puffed, and its protests alternated between low hisses and high cries. It stamped impatiently, and she turned to approach it, but the bird pecked at her in fear.

"Rose," Ovelia whispered, soothingly, approaching the chocobo slowly, and then glanced over her shoulder backward, staring into the field, after Alma's breathy scream cut above all other noise in the field.

"Behemoths!"

"Nine of them," Ramza added, his voice unusually grave, "There are too many for us. Come on, quickly!" Ovelia managed to calm Rose Red enough to mount the bird, and she suddenly rode like the wind, gliding through the rain following the glittering gold and harsh black of Alma's and Ramza's steeds. She stared wildly back; the behemoths were almost upon them. Steam streamed from their nostrils, and their eyes glowed like fire as they tore the earth asunder beneath their might claws hunting their prey. The beast in the lead bore its fangs, leapt wildly forward, its golden mane flying in the wind about its great, monstrous head, and landed near Rose Red. The monster bowed lowly attempting to gore the bird with its mighty horns, but the chocobo leapt right landing awkwardly on its long legs, tossing its rider from its back.

"Ovelia!" Ramza yelled pulling to a full stop. Before the woman even registered him calling her name, she whistled through the air and careened onto the earth, landing with a hard thwack near the river's edge. Breathless, Ovelia pushed herself to her feet. Her limbs were shaking, and when she was completely aware once more, the snarling beast was before her pawing at the ground ready to charge. A flash of black sped by her eyes, and she was in the air again, being yanked up onto Ramza's chocobo by her waist. She folded her arms around his waist, still dazed, and they ran on. Rose Red matched their pace as does Alma's golden Boco. Rose flashes her apologetic eyes, and she loosened one arm to reach out to the beast, but Ramza placed his firmly over hers.

"Do not let go," his ordered. Ovelia glanced back; the behemoths were still pursuing them, driving trenches into the earth. All the while, the rain was still falling, and the mist obscured everything further than ten meters from view. Half of the pack fell behind, and after ten minutes the monsters gave up the chase completely.

"Ramza," Ovelia murmured. He didn't respond, his hand still securing her arms around his waist. She didn't have to see his face or the bulging veins in his neck to know that he's angry. Over the next three hours, the dark clouds passed, and the rain slowed to a trickle, giving way to a starry sky. No one had spoken the entire time; Ramza was still just as angry as he had been after the encounter with behemoths, and when they rode into Bervenia, he sent Alma to a nearby inn on the poor side of the city to reserve a room for them.

Taking Boco and Rose Red by the reins, Ovelia walked a short distance behind Ramza and his steed as they made their way to a stable to house the chocobos for the night.

"How much for a single night for these three?" Ramza asked the stable master.

"That'll be thirty gold pieces," the man replied. Ramza paid him, throwing in an extra hundred for a potion to treat Rose Red's shallow wounds. He strode past Ovelia onto the streets without a word.

She'd had enough, "Ramza!" she called, and he stopped short then turned, taking her hand and pulling her into a dark alleyway, backing her against a wall.

"Are you mad?" he spat, "Don't ever call my name again in the street! Less could reveal us."

"I apologize," she faltered, "I didn't thi-"

Ramza cut her off and accused hotly, "Think? You never do, Ovelia."

Then her eyes narrowed. This wasn't at all about what happened on the street mere seconds ago…this was about what had happened on the field with the behemoths, but what could Ovelia had done to prevent that? Rose Red threw her, reacting only as it could in self preservation when the leader of the pack singled them out.

"That," Ovelia growled, "Could not be avoided, Ramza. Let me go," she demanded, trying to pull away from his powerful grasp.

He refused to be shaken free and leaned closely, his face so close to hers that their noses touched, "You should have remained in Zeltennia. If you truly cared for Ivalice, you would have stayed there. What brought you out here? The need to satisfy your vanity?" He let her go then, panting, his adrenaline spent.

"H-h-how dare you," she sputtered, her rage barely contained, "Do you truly think so little of me, Ramza? I've misjudged you," with that statement, Ovelia ran through the street towards the inn which Ramza had steered Alma; she bumped into her friend who'd been leaving to find them.

Catching sight of Ovelia's tear-streaked face, Alma's eyes filled with worry, "What hap…what did _he_ say?"

"Please," Ovelia hiccupped, wiping quickly at her eyes, "No questions. The key, if you would?"

"But," Alma began and then closed her mouth, thinking better of questioning the other woman further. She gave Ovelia the key and showed her their room, watching her friend leave without another word. Brow furrowed, Alma paced into the tavern, ordered a glass of wine, and sat at a table near the door, waiting for her brother. Barely any time passed before Ramza entered the inn himself, his cloak still damp and his hood low like hers. He walked about as if in a daze.

Alma waved him over, pointing for him to sit, "What did you say to her?"

Ramza raked a hand through his hair beneath the hood and stared away, "I am a fool, Alma. I should've never dealt so harshly with her…I was so angry, and my words were hasty. She'll hate me now. I'm sure of it."

Alma placed her hand over his, squeezing, "She's very hurt, but I'm sure she'll forgive you with time."

Ramza looked up suddenly, "I do care for her…against my honor, I care for her. Were she to die, I can't say what I'd do. I cannot lose someone else the same way I lost Ag…" It still hurt to speak her name. Ramza was slowly beginning to accept Agrias' madness.

"I know, Ramza. Don't think I haven't been watching the way you two behave around each other as of late," Alma smiled sadly, "You will not lose her like Agrias."

"Seeing…Agrias so nearly drove me mad, myself, and I'm so conflicted. I love Agrias…yet, I have these feelings that I cannot quash no matter how I try for Ovelia. She knows that I've been avoiding her. I can scarcely talk to her now," Ramza held his head in his hands.

"Brother…" Alma murmured, unsure of what to say…what to do, and she thought for a long moment, "Don't cast these feelings aside lest you _are_ driven mad. For now, it's for the best that we simply focus on the task at hand, but tomorrow when we break for camp, you must apologize to her, or you'll have to do battle with me," she joked.

He laughed quietly, his face taking on an expression she hadn't seen since before the Lion War. The quietly sad Ramza she'd grown up with whispered, "You always did know how to make me smile, Alma."

* * *

"Uncle," the boy tugged at Olan's sleeve with one hand and rubbed his eyes sleepily with the other.

Olan smiled sadly and patted the boy on his head, "Tis far past time for you to be sleeping, Your Majesty." Orinas was such a willful child, but Olan couldn't help but to indulge the boy with his mother's death still so fresh for everyone in Ivalice. So young to be without a mother…as young children often were after tragedy, Orinas barely grasped the full implications of Ruvelia's passing, and it was left to Olan and the boy king's flustered, shy nurse to dry his tears. He looked down at the stout little boy once whose long golden lashes drooped with fatigue, "Pray tell, milord, how you escaped your nurse this time?"

The boy's chest swelled with pride, "I am a very good spy, Uncle, and a good spy never tells his secrets."

"Is that so?" Olan allowed himself a dry chuckle and lifted the boy up in his arms who in turn protested, wriggling his legs and arms.

"Put me down!" the boy squawked, indignant.

"Now, now, milord, you can barely keep your eyes open. I am carrying you to your apartments myself, and it will be a scolding for you if you're skulking about the halls again."

Then, the boy's eyes brimmed with tears, and Olan felt immediately guilty, "Orinas," he began. Olan rarely used the young king's proper name, "You mustn't cry."

"Uncle," Orinas whined, "I'm not tired, honest! Please just let me stay with you a bit longer, and then I'll go to sleep, I promise."

Olan sighed as the boy's eyes went wide and pleading; he was growing soft or Orinas was growing cleverer by the day, "Very well then, milord. You will keep me company as I feed Agrias."

"The mad woman!?" Orinas exclaimed, and then his eyes were drawn wider by a very different emotion- fear.

Olan flashed the boy a severe look, "You mustn't call her so," and he intended to chastise the boy further but stopped himself. Orinas had been present for one of her rather nasty outbursts, but she'd been better these last few days, trading her sputtering and incoherent babble for longer and longer stretches of silence. For certain moments in the day, Olan could have sworn that as he looked into her eyes, she'd been staring back, truly seeing him for the first time since she'd been found almost a month ago. As he neared her corridor, he set the boy down, taking his hand instead.

"I believe she's still ill, Your Majesty," he began not at all sure why he was explaining his opinions of Agrias' malady to a child. Orinas cared and understood naught, "But, it would seem that she is improving."

As they approached her door, the knight guarding it drew himself up rigidly, standing at full attention.

"Milord," the knight saluted and stepped to the side giving Olan leave to enter, "A maid has already brought her evening meal."

"Very well," Olan replied, "And please do thank the lass that brought her meal. I know how the people fear her."

The knight appeared taken aback for a minute before mumbling a reply that Olan couldn't quite catch. The door closed behind him, and Olan sat the lad down at the foot of Agrias' bed. Her back was to him, the long curve of her neck made frailer and its fine bones all the more prominent for the near starvation her madness drove her to. He approached carefully, lightly even as he padded on tip toe across the room, and she drew a long shaky breath, the only noise that broke the quiet of the room since his entry. He lowered himself down in his chair across from hers slowly as if he sitting too quickly would've distressed the woman.

Olan smiled, his face a mask to the confidence he most certainly didn't feel, "Good tidings, Agrias. I apologize for my tardiness; matters of the kingdom have kept me long today," and he began to reach across the table over the same steaming bowl of gruel he fed her every day, three times a day, as if to take her hand. Did he dare? Deft, long fingers befitting his sorcerer's hands lowered enveloping hers, the callused fingers of a swordswoman softened for the recent lack of battle, and to his surprise she did not jerk away or screech. She sat perfectly still, her eyes now on his, not glazed over in madness but observant and glittering under the low candlelight that illuminated the room. Long shadows played against her face, masking the decrepit agedness her insanity had racked upon her. Bare of any emotion at all, she just stared, and he wasn't quite sure how to react.

"Uncle," Orinas' small voice broke the silence.

Olan didn't dare turn his back to Agrias, "Yes, Orinas?" He'd done it again, that nagging social faux pas of using the boy's proper name. Had he the courage to breach that unspoken etiquette once more? "Yes, Milord?" he corrected himself.

"Is she…she better?" Orinas whispered as if he were attempting to keep Agrias from hearing him.

"I-I-I," Olan sputtered, his mouth flapped like a fish flailing for air after being beached, "I'm not at all sure, Your Majesty."

He drew his hand from hers, thinking to compensate for this sudden strangeness about the room with his usual nonsensical chatter, and reached for the bowl, lifting the spoon to her lips, "I've never cared much for this myself, Agrias, not even in my infancy so I've been told, but I've been assured the taste is sweet. `Tis been flavored with oats and honey."

With a spoonful of the syrupy grain, he sat the bowl down to pry her mouth open with his free hand. He'd forgotten to apply the clamps or addle her with enough spells beforehand, and perhaps tonight he'd willfully forgotten. It was so barbaric a thing to have to do a woman he respected so much, but she stunned him, opening her mouth, and he fed her, completely silent unlike all his previous times with her.

When the bowl was empty, they sat together staring at one another, and then he spoke, "Agrias, can you hear me?"

"Yes," she replied weakly, gazing at him with more than a little fear, and she ran her hands against the sides of her face as if she weren't use to the invisible hinges beneath the skin stretching and contracting for speech.

"Oh dear God," Olan breathed, "Are you really there? Agrias, say something again."

"Where am I? Where are the others? Where is Ramza?"


End file.
